Fallout 4: New Boston
by EastSideBebop
Summary: War, war never changes... But as humans, the reasons we fight, should, can and do. A Series of interconnected one shots driven by the idea of the Sole Survivor fighting to unify the factions of the Commonwealth, loosely based on ideas from Kirbilius Clausius ' "War Never Ends"
1. Chapter 1

_**The meeting – Part one**_

The sounds of a Vertabird moving closer from above, drew his gaze upwards, keen blue eyes narrowing behind worn sunglasses as the craft slowed it's decent and gently touched down in on the recently painted concrete and metal helipad that had been built on the narrow field between the Castle's northwestern gate, and the ruined diner at the edge of east Boston. The black and white markings denoting that, as expected, it was a Brotherhood Of Steel scout. Lookouts shouted back and forth from the wall, and the watchtowers that had been built up around the artillery positions. While not panicked, the men were excited, having no doubt watched the bird fly in from the Prydwen , it's escorts having already made a number of passes after taking off from the Airport below, and slaughtering a pack of feral ghouls that had dared get even a quarter mile closer to the Castle than the artillery had been allowing for the last week.

"Right on time." Garvy said as he shifted in his newly repainted powerarmor, the old but still sturdy T-45d rig almost gleamed in its fresh blue livery. Glancing over at the General, Preston adjusted the sling that held the customized Service Rifle and it's slender long bayonet in place for easy access across the middle of the chest plates. "Shall we go and greet our newest guests General?" he said, picking his helmet off of his belt and turning to face Nate, the wind from the aircraft buffeting his leather Minutemen hat.

Holding his own hat in place, Nathan smiled wolfishly; "I want to continue setting the proper tone for now. And prevent Danse from shooting Valentine or anyone else, so let's work our way down from here, and head for the meeting room directly." Allowing Garvy to walk down the wide scaffolding steps ahead of him, Nate called out to a ruddy faced young man in an only slightly rumpled looking uniform as he moved to the second level of reinforced wooden planking; "Corporal Delany!"  
"Yessir!" the young man replied, snapping a quick if not properly sharp salute, his patched combat boots stamping into the dirt, heels almost touching.  
Nate smiled at the young man as Preston stomped past; "You and Specialist Morgan are to open the Auxiliary Field gate, and grant entry to the Brotherhood Of Steel delegation, and escort them to the war room, by way of the security locker, where you and Sergeant Rios will ensure their kit is documented, and locked away."  
"Copy that sir!" Delany lowered the salute and spun on his heel, pointing at an electrical switch on a wooden stand under the scaffolding frame that held up two levels of heavy wooden flooring behind a reinforced concrete wall, filling in the gap that had once been in Fort Independence's northwest wall: "Morgan! Unlock the door!"

"Copy"! a freckle faced Farm boy in cobbled together leather and combat armor, splashed in blue and white paint, pulled first one lever, and then another, before flipping a switch that allowed the reinforced sliding doors built into the double thick concrete to slide open with a loud clang, that almost drowned out the sounds of two dozen men and women of varying age, size and hygiene being drilled by a pair smirking but stern-faced Ranked Sergeant's with the extra stripes denoting one as a Master Sergeant, and the other as a Gunnery Sergeant.

"Unfuck your shite already! Get yer feet up! This is training an' exercise, not a harvest dance you stumble footed curs!" the throaty and almost shrill brogue cut like a barbed wire whip, as the redheaded, Master Sergeant Cait O'Toole, walked up and down the line of recruits and volunteers, her blue dyed baseball cap, square on her head, her hair pulled back into a small tight tail sticking out the back. "Feet UP I said!" she said pointing at a young and dirt faced woman with short blonde hair. "High stepping when you jump isn't impossible, you gotta be able to run _through_ when not just your life, but someone else's depends upon it!"

She nodded to the General and Colonel as they walked past, Nate's seasoned eye already sizing up who he thought might make good leaders. They had been quietly forming up teams and squads, organizing them in such a way that for any outside observer, on the surface, nothing would seem too much out of the ordinary. Maybe the better or newer guns and the painted armor would stand out to the most eagle-eyed watcher, or spy following any number of the growing Militia patrols now walking the roads of the Commonwealth, but the real surprise was within the rebuilt and reinforced walls of the Castle itself. There had been a focused effort on the part of the Minuteman leadership over the last few months, and Nate could not think of a time since leaving the vault that he had been more proud or impressed. They were rapidly approaching the line between a rambling but competent Militia, into a truly powerful and well organized military force, and Nathan's efforts on bringing the many scattered settlements together under a common banner was a feat of logistics, diplomacy and uncanny tactics leveraged with brute force.

"You're doing it again." Garvey said knowingly, a small smirk touching his lips as he saluted an outgoing six man patrol, leaving by the main gate.  
"No I'm not." Nate said, grinning and taking his hat off tucking it under his arm, as he entered the medical area and barracks walking through to the "war room" where he knew Lieutenant Colonel Shaw was already waiting with the other "delegates" he had called here today.  
"You sure? You were looking at the yard without really engaging with anyone or anything, other than Cait for a moment. Not that I'm judging mind you."  
"Lock that down Preston," Nate said flatly, not anger, but neither humor in his voice; "I told you, Cait and I are not an item, we are friends who… Found some onetime comfort during a time of mutual hardship."  
"Like I said," Garvey chuckled lightly; "I'm not judging. Not after you set me up with Piper, which I'm still trying to figure out if it was a really bad prank or the best thing that's happened to me in my life."  
"She has that effect on… everyone really." Nate conceded as they stepped to the closed door of the war room and paused, sharing a good humored glance.  
"I'd noticed." Garvey said before pushing the doors open and striding to a spot near the head of the table.

Nate followed and took the farthest chair, even as he heard another set of power armor marching down the corridor and to the now open doors, Paladin Danse, Proctor Ingram and Elder Maxson entered in a line, and stopped short of the long table looking at the others seated at the table. For just a moment, the tension could have strangled the whole room, as Danse visibly tensed and Maxson's nose flared and his eyes blazed, his gaze turning to Nate with confusion and anger; "Knight Reynolds, explain to me why I'm in a room with no less than two synths, a blood thirsty mercenary and a ghoul."

Smiling thinly, Nate saluted in the military fashion, his thumb tucked tightly under the angled blade of his fingers, almost but not quite touching his temple, in reply; "I'll be glad to _Elder_ Maxson," the word was emphasized only slightly, but it's obvious yet underlying implications spoke volumes more; "Firstly because here it's 'Minutemen General Nathan Reynolds' and secondly gathered here in this room, you are the designated leaders and or representatives of the five major blocks of the dozen or so factions vying for power, position and in the end, long term dominance of the Commonwealth. Given how the last six months have been going for everyone, I would think that getting a better read on the terrain, and possibly finding a way to reconcile some things would be preferable to spending more resources and people on trying to wrestle things around as you'd like them, or maybe not?"  
For his part, Maxson held a stony face, and Nate figured him to be one hell of a poker player, yet even so, the younger man's eyes were almost cowed in the presence of a fellow, and decidedly senior commanding officer, and solider. And given the disadvantage of location, the Brotherhood Elder was willing to admit to himself that he did not feel as invincible all but surrounded here on the ground as he might have on the Prydwen, which was of course he now realized, the point. "The artificial detective, he is not a leader; he represents no faction I am aware of." Arthur said, grasping for some ground to regain, knowing he could not afford to look any weaker in front of this gathering.

"Nick, defines his existence by selflessly helping others, he is under no selfish pretenses, and as such is the representative of the common person in the Commonwealth," Nate said casually, almost informally; "Or more to the point, an observer of the common person living in the Commonwealth," he held his hand up before anyone could interrupt him and then nodded towards Valentine; "Strictly speaking, as he has the memories of a prewar Police Detective as his base operating system, and has lived for the last fifty plus years in the wasteland now, he is one of the closest things to a truly neutral and dispassionate observer as we can get, aside from myself of course, but as I have my own biases, entanglements and vested interests that would needlessly complicate, I instead am here representing the Minutemen."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." Nick grunted in amusement as Maxson held his tongue behind his teeth and groused softly before pulling the last empty chair out, and sat down with more dignity than he likely felt, before he tapped the table top loudly with his knuckles and demanded; "Very well, I'll listen, and then when I talk, you will all listen, and whatever the outcome of this… meeting is, know that the full weight of the Brotherhood's might hangs in the balance, ready to fall where it may most be needed."

"Childish threats from a child with a gun." A masked woman in worn but sturdy clothes and light leather armor chortled out dourly, her arms crossing over her chest as a bald headed man in sunglasses and a greaser outfit smirked broadly. "If I had known this was the intent of this meeting, bringing all of this leadership here at once like this, I might had taken further precautions. Like not coming, or blowing a hole in that wall big enough to park a Vertabird in."  
"This is why I told you what you wanted to hear, in order for you to come here." Nate said, looking at who he knew to be Desdemona, but has thus far only given out the name "Lamp Lighter" when asked by the others.

"If I may be so bold, the tactical analysis holds a less than thirty percent chance of success of any sort of violent moves made by anyone here, removing the threat of direct outside intervention of course, given that only the Militia forces here are in fact armed." The Institute Courser, X6-88 observed in an even and dry tone, as if resigned to whatever might happen next, no matter what that outcome might be.

"The machine has a point," Danse said plainly, his brow furrowed slightly as he looked to his onetime recruit; "Why are only the Minutemen armed here?"

"Can't believe I'm agreeing with the tin man over there," Handcock said as he lit a cigarette and then took a deep drag, blowing the smoke out as he continued, "But I don't like being so far apart from my shotgun or knife. Makes me nervous when I can't sort someone out the easy way. "

Nate sighed deeply and waved his hands around widely; "My house, my rules, my responsibility to protect it and keep all of my _**guests**_, safe. Any other questions or are we done fucking around here?" the tone he ended on might have been called condescending, if it had not been so commanding and lacking in arrogance.

Having earned silence from the gathered people of interest, Nate took a few quick beats to ensure he had everyone's attention before standing up, and speaking clearly, slowly, as if he was sharing a personal secret; "Mayor McDonough, how many active security guards do you have at Diamond City?"

"I, uh… I'm sure I don't have any hard numbers with me at this time," McDonough said hurriedly, confusion more clear on his face than anyone else's, his eyes darting back and forth for a moment before he regained his composure; "Besides the fact that I fail to see what kind of question that is, it's none of you or anyone else's worry, or business, and if it is meant as a threat, I would remind you all that we have our wall, and almost every citizen is armed, some far more than others, but as every Super Mutant in Boston knows well, any attack on Diamond City is doomed to fail!"

"Unless I told Lancer Capitan Kells to strafe the market a few times before dropping a platoon of Brotherhood Knights and Soldiers right on top of you." Maxson said before Nate could reply, but with that interjection, the General decided to flip his planned dialogue around, and let Maxson talk himself into trouble for him instead: "Oh yes, like you did at County Crossroads last week? That was spectacular." He said waiting for the younger mans pride to trip him up. It took only a heartbeat for that to happen…

"It is a sight to behold," Arthur said, almost beaming, "Power Armor falling from the sky, weapons directing death at foes, the glory of battle is enough to compete with our sacred duty, but we can do so much more. We just happen to be really good at fighting the plagues of humanity."

"Funny how one plague begets another." Nick said dryly as he picked at a damaged patch seam on his trench coat.

"Or how losing two Vertabirds and almost a half dozen troops to a one-eyed runt mutant with a bent fatman and degraded shells constitutes glory." Nate said darkly, drawing all attention back to himself, his eyes dark and piercing, daring anyone to contradict him as he spoke again, fixing McDonough with a hard look; "Twenty-four active Guards patrol within, and around DC, and you have barely half of that in semi-retired reserves and a hand full of volunteers you'd let strap on a helmet and pads." The surprise only covered about half of the room, and Nate pounced on it like a horny deathclaw in springtime: "Between what you can grow, your water, and what reserves you have, I say you could last six to ten weeks if you are smart about it from day one, and can get all of your troops pulled in and lock the front gate. Otherwise you'd have less than two days before a large enough force wipes you out, raids, rapes and razes Diamond City down to the bleachers, and then sets up shop themselves. Only three, no… Four groups have the manpower and resources to bother with that, a three of them are sitting right here, and two of them already knew this."

Danse looked stricken as he blurted out, "The Brotherhood—"

"Would never do that?" Preston cut him off and arched his eyebrows, before tilting his head towards Handcock; "But what about Goodneighbor? I'm actually kind of surprised you've not made a play for it yet, it's in a decent location, easy to defend, and with no aerial defenses to speak of, you could drop your shock troops in on their heads and make it good and messy in no time."

"Ahh Garvy," Handcock sighed, "Now, why'd you have to go and put that idea into their heads?"

"Because it's true, and they've already planned it." General Reynolds said flatly, looking to the Mayor in red with challenge on his face.

Handcock didn't rise to the bait, showing surprisingly good judgment in reading what was happening; "We got only half again more guns guarding my town than McDonough, but while everyone in Goodneighbor armed, the big deal is that it's smaller, and tighter fighting. We'd make anyone who tried pay a hefty bill prying it from our hands." The ghoul crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back, eyeing Nate closely, a thought occurring to him just then, as Ingram at last spoke up.

"Say what you want," the power frame clad woman said matter-of-factly; "But between our air power, power armor, weapons, training and some other tricks we're working on, I know I can speak for the Paladin and Elder when I say, if you are going to ask about the Brotherhood, the simple answer is; more and better than any of you." Danse seemed pleased enough with that reply, but Maxson was incised: "If I thought it necessary, I could order every settlement, strafed, bombed and burned to ash, and within the month, all who survived would be in flight, in chains, or in fatigues, getting the stupidity of the wasteland flogged from them. If I am forced to marshal the full might of the Brotherhood of Steel, I could have reinforcements from the Capitol Wasteland here within two weeks, while the fullness of three hundred strong and willing warriors marching and flying into pitched battle drove forward, killing everything that raises a weapon."

"Only three hundred?" Nate asked, chidingly; "Now, I know you only have enough power armor for about a third of that, and that's a seventy thirty split between the old T-45's, and the upgraded T-60's, plus whatever T-51's you have hidden away, or whatever else you have salvaged for spare parts, which is still three times the number that the Railroad can muster on a good day, am I right, _Lamp Lighter_?"

Desdemona's masked face didn't betray any emotion, but the clear tension in her shoulders and the pensive expression on Deacon's sunglassed face looked more than a little uncomfortable.  
"We have hundreds of contacts and people we can call on for a wide range of actions, but you are correct that in a stand up fight, we couldn't do more than inconvenience any or all of you here. Which is why when we fight, we don't fight fair."

Nate held his hand up and waved her off before she or Deacon could say more, as he looked to the Courser and Doctor Ayro, smiling softly; "But no guerrilla force has ever been able to decisively beat a professional army by itself in the recorded history of warfare, not without help from another professional army… This brings us to the Institute, the only obvious faction able to rival or surpass the Brotherhood in any meaningful way, strategically speaking that is."

Ayro finally spoke, the disdain in his voice only matched by the shock on his face; "As if we would ever help the Railroad! They are misguided thieves and ideologues who have done nothing but make an already tenuous situation worse with their meddling!"

"On that at the very least we can agree." Maxson said dismissively as McDonough squirmed in his seat and eyed Danse nervously.

"Doctor Ayro," Reynolds said, matter-of-factly, "Tell me, besides the Coursers, how many combat capable synths could you bring to bear if you had to? I mean, if for some reason you needed to launch a full scale assault upon a location, and you threw everything but the kitchen sink at it, what sort of numbers might we see?" the amused expression on his face was faint, but clear as the scientist sputtered for a moment then sighed; "I get the impression that you are trying to make some sort of point." Nate now smiled in reply; "You would be only partly correct, if you please sir?"  
Ayro frowned slightly then shrugged; "Very well, if we activated all of our current deployment ready Synth's including the small catch of decommissioned Gen one security models, The Institute would be fielding some four hundred and fifty units."  
"Four hundred and fifty-seven to be exact." X6-88 offered helpfully, before he made a confused face, and Doctor Ayro snapped at him to be silent.

"But," Nate said smirking, "you only ever have twenty-four active and operational Coursers," he pointed out, his tone sliding from humorous and conversational, into hard bitten and judgmental: "And frankly Doctor, given what I've seen, as impressive as they can be, the Institute's overall strategic plan is practically nonexistent, and the tactical doctrine is, if I may be brutally honest and blunt here, fucking retarded."

The venom behind the end of that sentence brought out a mild collective gasp from all assembled there ratcheted up the tension in the room, if only because so few of the assembled leaders had ever heard Nate swear. Nick on the other hand just chuckled as he lit a cigarette and leaned back in his seat and mused aloud; "There's that brash and ballsy Bostonian honesty I've missed so much."

Nate smirked after a moment then turned his head to the still open doors and nodded to the Gunnery Sergeant; "MacReady, bring in the box." A nod in reply confirmed the request, a few moments before the Gunnery Sergeant walked in carrying a green and blue foot locker in his arms. Walking over, he set it down in the middle of the table, saluted and then walked to the doors, shutting them before standing in front of them as if guarding.

Opening the lid, Nate started to pull out armor, crude but sturdy radios, a backpack, and other such items, passing them to his right, for inspection. "As you can see," he said curtly, his eyes sweeping the table as he spoke; "This is all the sort of kit a professional solider would need in the field, everything but a weapon with ammo, and of course, food and water, but as you can see, this is all matched, refined, and as well appointed as we can manage." The first pieces of armor had been studded, hardened and doubled layered leather, fairly light, flexible and sturdy, but now light weight and reinforced Combat Armor, painted blue and emblazoned with the Minutemen symbol was being passed around while he spoke; "This is far from the first set we have made, as of this last Monday, every single Minuteman stationed here, and at every major settlement we either control, or are aligned with, has one of these two armor sets equipped, a lightened version has been handed out to our caravans and provisioners alongside the guards assigned to them."

As the armor made its way around, Danse spoke once more, the impressed tone of his voice was not lost on the assembled; "This is rather good armor, pre-war salvage or not, it's on par with anything the Field Scribes or Lancers wear at the least." Maxson grunted almost absently as he turned a leather helmet over in his hands, then set it down, as if something had just occurred to him, his eyes narrowed at Reynolds; "You're not feeling us out, you _know_ what each faction can bring to bear, you've been involved to one level or another for weeks and months now… And we know next to nothing about what actual numbers the Minutemen can bring about." Maxson stood at the end of his statement, his gaze riveted on the General as the older man's smile suddenly broadened in humorous glee.

"Oh of course, how stupid of me." Doctor Ayro fumed at last realizing the gravity of what Reynolds had done, once The Brotherhood Elder had voiced it out loud, "This was never about working out any sort of truce or surrender of one faction to another, this was all about you… Well, making us reveal what kind of fight each might put up against you, but—"

"That would be pointless because as Elder Maxson already pointed out, Nate here has been in the know for a while now." Valentine commented as he stubbed out the last of his smoke, and then took a drink from a whiskey bottle, a small smirk on his worn and damaged rubberized foam lips.

"Which means," Handcock said admonishingly, "He's forced us all to lay our cards, such as they may be, all on the table, without letting us collaborate or deduce what his own might be."

"Thirty-seven." Nate said flatly, sweeping his gaze over the room as he stood up, his arms crossing over his chest; "Thirty-seven settlements across the Commonwealth, from Far Harbor in the north, down to Vault eighty-eight, from here on the coast, back to Sanctuary near Vault one-eleven, and all the way to Nukaworld, the Minutemen have either established or allied with settlements across the sum of the greater Boston area, and now provide patrols and escorts along the roads, and we run over twice than many trade routes between them all, and as some of you might have noticed, food and clean water has been much more plentiful recently, thanks to our farms and major settlements, and we have the means to protect them thanks to the Brotherhood's negligence and the Institute's tactical waste."

He gestured to Garvey who nodded, and then picked up a rifle from a shelf on the wall, and explained; "This is a standard issue, Minuteman rebuilt model fifteen, Service Rifle. Chambered in standard five fifty-six, this semi-automatic rifle was part of a massive salvage operation we completed a month ago at the National Guard Armory near County Crossing, along with other National Guard outposts and catches, and from the Revere Radar Station." Preston manipulated it deftly in his power armor, showing that the mag well was empty, and the chamber clear, the recently refinished wood, and cleaned metal, along with the stenciled in Minuteman logo, set it apart from the typical salvaged and improvised weapon that was sometimes common: "With it, your typical Minuteman, after our four weeks mandated training, is able to lay down consistent, focused and accurate fire at almost any range, on the order of twenty rounds in as many seconds, while other members move to engage with other now standardized weapons like, Laser Muskets, Assault Rifles, bolt action Rifles, and our new Ion Rifles." Laying the Service Rifle on the table, he pulled down what was clearly a repainted and modified Institute Rifle, which he then loaded, powered on, and then fired a single blinding white bolt at a wooden silhouette propped up against the far wall near the door. It broke in half, and smoldered on the ground, a scorch mark on the stonework behind.

Nate smiled at that, everyone else having jumped slightly when the shot had been taken. Clearing his throat, he nodded to Doctor Ayro; "Given the fact that Gen two and three synths in the field tend to have a short life span, or are prone to dropping their weapons and running when too damaged, we've been able to gather more than a few of these, and thanks to the simple and logical design, we've been able to refit and upgrade them with surprising ease. Keeping our men in power cells is the only major issue at this point." Looking back to Elder Maxson, he then hefted the Service Rifle and gave it a once over himself before laying back down; "The Brotherhood's fixation on the ARE nine, laser platform and its derivatives, means you lost out on a surprisingly intact stockpile of standard issue National Guard Service Rifle's, and even a small but almost perfectly preserved shipment of R ninty-one's. Hell, we even managed to scrounge a few crates of ancient M one Garand's to use."

"We have the means to recycle and produce our own power cells," Ingram said hotly, her face guarded and wary even as she spoke, her gaze drifting to Doctor Ayro and the Courser, "As clearly does the Institute, something I'm sure you struggle with." Her tone was wary, and unconvinced, and she eyed Nate closely as he sat back down.

After a long moment's pause, General Reynolds spoke almost softly, "I served in the Seventh Army Group, 2nd Battalion, 108th Infantry Regiment, Third Platoon, Bravo Company, under General Chase" His gaze drifted away from the room for a moment, before he brought his eyes back to the table; "For you who may not be fully up on your Sino-American War history, the one oh eight was made up of both rotating National Guard units, and the leftovers of the third and fourth battalions of the same army group, that is to say, the forces that had been fighting in and around Japan and the Red-Chinese coastline after Anchorage was occupied, we were also part of the force that was pulled back and made the overland march on Anchorage, striking out as part of the second push on the city once the T51's were deployed after a commando drop behind enemy lines. We fought for three months straight right alongside the fifth and seventh shock infantry in the power armor, hell, it's where I learned how to wear and fight in it, and how to fix it. This situation is only complicated because there are more than two sides fighting, but it's also more simple because there is only really one side worth fighting for."

Nate stood up, having captured everyone's attention with his tone and volume; "I'm not here to try and broker some kind of ceasefire or fan the flames of conflict, I'm here to force each of you to look me in the eye, and tell me why you think your faction deserves my support. Because I'm here to tell you, none of you is getting anywhere else without me, or the Minutemen, the people of the commonwealth will see to that. If in the end, you manage to broker some sort of peace or agreement with the other factions, then all the better, and if not, all you will have done is confirmed my reasons for wanting to kick your ass out of Boston, permanently."

* * *

A/N: This started as a oneshot idea, built around my biggest single hangup with Fallout 4: you can't broker any alliances between any of the factions besides the Minutemen and whomever you pick to get you to the end of the main story line.

I then took a few hints and cues from Kirbilius Clausius and their unfinished saga "War Never Ends" but stayed true to my own playthrough and ideas.  
I have at least two other parts in mind, and have no idea if this will snowball into something bigger, or just be a short blurb of an idea.

Please read, review, follow and favorite if you enjoyed this and wantmore!


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Apologies for taking so long to get this chapter up, a nast combination of tech failure, writer's block, and real life conspired to delay this by an easy 3 weeks, but as I will always endeavor to persevere, adapt, improvise, overcome & achieve, I now give you part two of the first fully fleshed out Oneshot idea I had for a FO4 FF. Please favorite/review if you like this and are willing to put up with my terrible consistency. not so secrete hint: anyone who writes, thrives on input, so you can likely bribe me to write more/faster if you harass me enough via reviews. Anyways, on with the show!**_

* * *

_**The meeting – Part two**_

Nate stood up, having captured everyone's attention with his tone and volume; "I'm not here to try and broker some kind of ceasefire or fan the flames of conflict, I'm here to force each of you to look me in the eye, and tell me why you think your faction deserves my support. Because I'm here to tell you, none of you is getting anywhere else without me, or the Minutemen, the people of the commonwealth will see to that. If in the end, you manage to broker some sort of peace or agreement with the other factions, then all the better, and if not, all you will have done is confirmed my reasons for wanting to kick your ass out of Boston, permanently."

"Bold words from someone in a less than ideal position to back them up." Maxson said guardedly, his eyes narrowed as he sized Reynolds up once more, the heat in his gaze rising slowly as the full weight of the gambit that the former vault dweller had pulled over on him, and everyone else it seemed, settled into the room. He'd been out maneuvered, and what was worst, it was a thin and weak ploy that had done it, yet it had been brilliant because it had _worked_, and worked repeatedly.

"I'd hardly call our position a weak one sir," Preston said as he unloaded and replaced the Ion Rifle, then removed the Service Rifle as well; "Without betraying guarded information, I can say with absolute confidence that if shooting started tomorrow, no matter what else happened, we'd give you one hell of a fight, and on top of that, the people would stand behind, if not beside the Minutemen without much hesitation, because our cause is the freedom of the people themselves, here and now, and for as long as there is even just one of us in blue, breathing and able to pull a trigger."

"A noble sentiment," Maxson said as he held a hand up, stopping Danse and Ingram before they could join; "But as your General pointed out not too long ago, no guerilla force has ever defeated a professional standing army without the help of another professional army." He managed to not smirk as he said this, but then another smirking voice cracked his already fragmenting calm and resolve:

"Feh, typical Brotherhood dicks for brains thinking," MacReady said at last as he pushed himself off of the door and strode over to stand next to Preston, just behind Nate; "Catch a clue bucketheads: Who has standardized training, weapons and armor, stockpiles of ammo, food, water, radios, artillery and oh yeah, a standing force at least equal to your own?"

Nate smiled softly as the Gunnery Sergeant spoke, before resting his hands on the table top lightly; "By any other name _Arthur_, we're an army, **the** army in some ways. Other than the Gunners and you, we're the only other properly organized fighting force in the Boston area, and what is more, the Brotherhood and the Minutemen are the only non-mercenary, non raider fighting forces around… Doesn't it make sense not to waste time waiting or wanting to fight each other, and instead, pool our resources, our strengths, and actually clean this place up?"

"But to what end?" Lamp Lighter at last interjected, her arms still crossed over her chest, her mask still firmly in place as he looked from one military leader to the other, pointedly ignoring all others.

"I gotta ask that myself," Handcock said nodding towards her, then gesturing back at Reynolds and Maxson; "The Minutemen are okay in my book, because they are of the people and for the people, which is the way it should always be, but to who exactly does the Brotherhood answer too but themselves? Just so you know, bigotry is gonna be going outta style again sooner or later, which is the lovely thing about democracy, but not everyone is going to be so polite about it as others."

"I recall some kind of quote," Nick said as he worked a loose screw in his hand with a screwdriver, "In three boxes do a man's rights reside, the jury box, the ballot box and the bullet box… Or something to that effect." He said before tucking the tool back into his coat and looking at the eyes now staring back at him: "What? Got something in my teeth?"

"You are a machine, not a man!" Danse barked, his brow furrowed, and face flushing, even as Nick smirked back and shook his head, chuckling in reply; "Never claimed to be anything other than what I am Paladin, my humanity may just be limited to memories and a desire to help the down trodden and hopeless, but I can continue to exist with that until I finally go on to the big scrap heap."

"But that all brings us about to the salient point of this meeting," Nate said as he stood up once more and crossed his arms over his chest again, the squared off and closed body language reinforcing his commanding tone and brokering no further interruptions; "Shaun, my son, the leader of the Institute is dying, and I believe he fully intends to name me his successor." The room went quiet, and Doctor Ayro's face went blood red as he glared at Nate, but before he could say anything, Reynolds continued on; "My wife's father suffered from an aggressive form of cancer, and some of the smaller, more subtle tells are written all over Shaun's face, and the way he talks. He doesn't have to tell me, I know without him saying anything that he is dying. Death and I are old co-workers after all."

"Your sons impending death is the focus of this meeting?" Danse said with mild confusion, "While you have my condolences for your loss, you do realize that for the Brotherhood, this is the best possible news we could hope for? An ally if not full fledged member of our chapter, is poised to take over operational control our greatest advisory. The technologies, the resources, and the knowledge to be gained could put the Brotherhood ahead of every major faction, not just locally, but across the continent, this is on a scale not thought of since before the Great War."

X6-88, looked to Danse and opened his mouth, "M7-97—"

"X6-88, command override Victor Echo Seven Two Nine Lima, code word: golden." Nate snapped out, rendering the courser mute and frozen mid word.

Danse and Ayro both stared at the frozen courser for a moment before looking to Nate in confusion, a mild panic in the Paladins' eyes and utter shock in the doctors.

"Apologies for that," Reynolds said after an extra moment's pause, he gestured to Danse and continued; "Ideally, the Brotherhood would take that wealth of information and share it with the people of the Commonwealth, before returning to the Capital Wasteland to spread the love. Of course that only really helps if they are able and willing to replicate the work of Project Purity, and bring it back here." He looked to Maxson to see what sort of reaction he could get. The Elder seemed lost in thought for a moment, as if weighing the benefits of such a move.

"We would need Doctor Madison Li to return to our employ for us to even start to be able to do that," Arthur said plainly, "While we have been able to maintain the site, much of the programming for the computers is beyond our scribes, due to its propriety nature, while the mechanics are understood, the regulation of them is what we are still working to understand, now even ten years later."

"Doctor Li is a senior member of our bio-science department, but she is free to leave if she so chooses." Ayro said even as he started to examine X6.

"The biggest issue at hand, is the Brotherhood's stance on synths and ghouls." Nate said nodding; "While I personally think it is ethically bankrupt and morally reprehensible that the Institute has both in effect and in application created a slave race, as well as a means to literally replace humanity with an unnatural progression of our biological form, I can't blame the synths for something they have had little to no input on. They never asked to be created, and they by and large have next to zero say in their existence. The responsibility, rests squarely on the shoulders of the leadership, and I intend to hold them as such, to that end however, others have their own sins to atone for." He eyed Desdemona and then Elder Maxson closely, waiting for one of them to break the quiet first. Maxson did not surprise or disappoint when he scowled back with arrogant distain.

"Is that a fact?" the Elder said with venom in his voice, and fire once more in his eyes; "And who the hell are you to assume such a position as to judge the Brotherhood?"

Nate reached up to his collar and pulled out a gleaming chain that held a pair of golden rings, his Hollotags as well as a single recycled piece of blue painted metal and two more primitive tags made of stamped steel and coated in rubber rings; "As a Knight of the Brotherhood, the General of the Minutemen, a Former Master Sergeant in the United States Army, the sole survivor of my vault and apparently the only adult in the room able to look past petty tribalism and arrogance, objectively speaking, who the fuck else is there?"

The question hung in the air for a few moments, a hot reply seemed to be poised on the lips of Maxson, yet something about the hard undertone to Reynolds voice held him in check, something that resonated with him, memories of his drill sergeant back in the Citadel, and the bite of authority that experience granted such barely veiled power behind the other mans words.

"Sir, if I may?" Danse at last broke the smoldering and uneasy silence, gesturing to the table, and looking to Maxson for permission, which was granted after but a moment's consideration: "Knight Rey— Er, Nathan… No one here doubts or questions the pain you have suffered, or the incredible things you have achieved since you left your vault in search of your son, your tenacity, your achievements speak for themselves, and for that and more, you have earned at the very least the attention, and at most, the respect of everyone in this room. That having been said, for such a significant and impactful matter, is it so unreasonable for any of us to question your judgment?" he looked around the room, hoping to garner more open support, but only Doctor Ayro and Mayor McDonough seemed to be even half way in agreement.

Nathan shrugged before holding his hand out, palm up and expectantly as he spoke; "You'd have to be foolish or dead not to question the judgment of another person, but let me put a finer point to this: by a show of hands, who here in this room, at any point in the last six months, has trusted me with their life? Or even the lives of people they cared about or were responsible for?" the whole room slowly, one by one raised a hand, starting with Valentine, Garvy and MacReady, and at last ending with Elder Maxson and Doctor Ayro, only X6-88 failed to respond as he was still stuck in a security lockdown.

"Look around, closely." The General said softly, locking his gaze upon each of them as he spoke; "Unanimously, you all give me your vote of confidence or past confidence in me to do my part in protecting you, and the people you give a shit about. Why not now? Are the demands of your faction, your ideals so hard and fast, etched in steel plate to the point of being foolish? Are you so far beyond reason and logic that you can't try to sit down and hammer out some sort of agreement without bloodshed, or an outside party needing to be the host brain for you?"

Almost everyone aside from the Minutemen looked away from the table in shame, save for Maxson, who looked dully into the middle distance, his eyes slowly narrowing before Danse once more spoke up; "You're right… We need to find a way to work together, we need to be honest and self examine where we all stand, and ask the hard questions."

Maxson turned with a look of shocked distaste to his second in command; "Paladin you are dangerously close to being out of line, I suggest you remember who you are and who you serve!" at this, Ingram took a step back, and Ayro seemed to smirk.

"Respectfully Elder," Danse said, resolve ringing clearly in his voice; "I serve the Brotherhood of Steel, and the Brotherhood, serves humanity. But, how can we say we do, if we are so willing to destroy others who may be of service to it? Are we going to doom humanity to this… squalor forever? We can't do everything, and what we can do, we can no longer do alone. The world is a big place, and already, people are to starting to fill it up again. Elder Maxson sir, we must adapt, or die."

For his part, Maxson held his gaze upon Danse for a solid five seconds before he gave the barest of nods and looked back to Reynolds and lifted his chin slightly, speaking clear but low, a dangerous glint behind his eyes; "I would presume you have some sort of terms in mind for a nonaggression pact?"

Nate held the other leader's gaze for a heartbeat before he swept the room with his gaze, the sudden edge in his voice paled in compare to the smoldering fury in his eyes as he replied; "This is the first and most important demand, without it, you get a big blue bull's eye painted on your ass the moment you set foot outside of the Castle… Sentient life must be protected at all costs. No exceptions. If it can think, reason, is aware of itself and can articulate all of the above, it's counted as citizen, and that _must_ be protected, no matter who's colors or flag it salutes, right up until the point where it points a gun in your face, in which case, self defense is absolutely both reasonable, and expected." He kept his eyes sweeping the room, gazing intently at his guests; "Is this _understood_?"

"Perfectly." Handcock said with a solemn nod, the faintest of grins on his withered lips. Others soon followed in nodding in agreement, even Ayro at last grunting in the affirmative, even if with a caveat: "Very well, since we know Synths, as a rule are not sentient," he glanced at Valentine at that; "Then I fail to see how this really affects the Institute. I will of course have to speak to the director about this and as such cannot and will not commit to anything today, but I foresee no lasting objections to the premise, but I am sure that concessions will be demanded, not only from us, but everyone else here."

Nate gave an amused look to the head of Synth Retention, before replying; "I intend to speak with Shaun personally on the matter," he looked back to the room and shrugged; "The rest of you are here, so we can talk now about our ideas."

Desdemona glanced over to Deacon for a few seconds before looking back to Maxson, somehow through the mask, she seemed to convey distain as she spoke, "The Railroad's demands should be both simple, and obvious; we want the Brotherhood to stop hunting down our agents and the synths we help escape."

Maxson scowled and opened his mouth to retort, but paused and looked to Nate, then sighed deeply, "Unless you can suddenly promise that synth attacks will stop across the whole commonwealth, I don't think I can in good faith agree to all of that." He held his hands up, not unlike Reynolds as Lamp Lighter leaned forward and Deacon started to laugh, and continued; "In so far as our hunting of synths go at least I cannot agree, but we can and will stop hunting your agents, assuming we can positively ID them in the field, if not, anyone who looks like wasteland trash and points a weapon at a member of the Brotherhood, gets killed. I refuse to tie my people's hands behind their backs on this."

Deacon gave two short claps and laughed once more, "Well now that's so very big of you! How soon can we expect _that_ to happen?"

"As soon as I return to my Vertabird, I can radio the order in," Maxson replied all but smugly; "and it will be a standing order until we either leave or some other event takes place to force me to rescind it."

"Reasonable enough I suppose," Lamplighter said shifting back slowly, her gaze never moving from the Elder as she hummed to herself for a moment, then agreed; "More reasonable that I would have otherwise expected, but understand I don't have direct operational control of every single member or ally, and not everyone is going to like whatever it is we're going to concede, so if someone attacks in the name of the Railroad all you need to remember is that as of right now, I didn't order it, and if I ever do, I'll be sure there is no mistaking it as such."

"A small comfort for everyone else here I'm sure, but I don't think I can allow for any concessions on our part." Ayro said before he whispered into X6-88's ear, and the courser suddenly sat down and took a deep breath, then replied; "System reloaded, accessing temporary memory storage… corrupted data purged. Courser designation X6-88 awaiting orders."

"Resume escort protocol delta five."

"Understood, passive protection mode engaged."

Ayro folded his hands on the tabletop in front of himself and shook his head once more; "In order for us to continue our progress in the scientific endeavors we have committed our resources to, there is little to nothing we can or would be willing to concede, outside of possibly opening some sort of trade agreement for access to raw materials, I can think of nothing we would be willing to part with that would be of value to any of you, and little we could not take or make on our own that you could offer us."

"So in other words," Handcock said with a slight edge to his gravelly voice; "It's business as usual for the Institute, no matter what anyone else thinks or wants, eh?"

"We are all but fully self sustaining, we have enough advanced technology and methods to recycle and repurpose most materials, are can purify virtually any water source, and without any direct connection to the surface world, we are safe from any sort of attack. All of this by design, so why shouldn't we stay our course? What can any of you really do to us?"

Cracking knuckles brought everyone's attention back to Nate, who scowled at the doctor with unbridled distain; "This is exactly the sort of contempt I warned Shaun about, this is the reason why no one else likes or trusts you, you speak of a bright future for humanity, hope, yet you stay hidden away underground, terrorizing and debasing others, taking what you want, with no regard for what it costs them." His eyes were dark and piercing, his voice resonated with barely restrained danger; "Sounds a lot like a band of self-aggrandizing raiders to me. Preston, what do we _do_ to raiders?"

"We put them down. Hard." Garvey deadpanned, his own arms folding across his chest as he sized X6 up once more.

"To a less educated, ignorant mind I suppose that might be true, but we are pushing the boundaries of scientific thought, and application, logically we have moved far beyond the guidelines of the less than pragmatic constrains of narrow morality, we are pushing for the answers mankind has sought since we stumbled across fire, and—"

The sharp click of a pistol hammer being clocked back silenced everyone as Nate slowly leveled a worn and weathered Army Model 10mm pistol at the doctor. X6-88 quickly slid himself between the firearm and the doctor, but made no other moves towards anyone else.

"X6, what is the peak muzzle velocity of a standard ten mil round from an N99H model handgun?" Nate asked calmly, as everyone became deathly still and quiet.

"Depending upon the ammunition type and the exact length of the barrel and any extensions, as the N99H came with two types of standard barrels in five and six inch lengths, anyplace from three hundred to four hundred and ninety meters per second, delivering roughly one half to three quarters of a metric ton of force across—"

"Thank you X6, now tell me, would your head be able to slow down a single round sufficiently enough to ensure Doctor Ayro's survival?"

"Statistically, the doctors survival rate varies from almost forty percent to barely ten, given current circumstances." The Courser replied flatly.

"So you are willing to die for him, even knowing that it would likely be to no actual effect?" Nate asked calmly.

"I do not understand the question. I am programmed to follow Doctor Ayro's orders, therefore I am in compliance with his passive protection protocols by placing myself between him and a possible immediate danger to his wellbeing."

Nate arched an eyebrow, then replied; "X6-88, override code Alpha eight eight six Echo Serria Oscar Serria Papa Delta niner one one seven. Execute advanced protocol command phrase 'Golem' and report."

X6 went bolt upright, and then relaxed, and looked around the room stiffly, before looking to doctor Ayro, and then to Nate, who was now casually pointing the gun upwards, waiting.

"Do you intend to kill doctor Ayro?" the Courser asked in a more natural, or at least, more human tone, his hands folding behind his back as he spoke.

"Not yet, all I intend to do is instill in him an… Understanding in social graces, and basic human morality. I would rather not kill him yet, but shooting him is still an option."

"Intending to wound but not kill?"

"That's the idea. Not that it always works out like that in practice, but..."

"Doctor Ayro is my responsibility, as such I would request that you not harm him at this time, unless he causes notable damage to yourself or another."

"I repeat my previous query X6; would you be willing to die for Doctor Ayro?" Nate asked, his eyes shifting towards Maxson and Danse carefully.

"I… would rather not, but as I have said, he is my responsibility. I will take whatever actions I can to protect him if I can."

"If I may," Ayro said testily; "By what right do you think you can just access deep programming and banned subroutines?"

"As the father of the Director, and as the defacto appointee to replace him, and by the rights of authority previously stated, _doctor_." Reynolds said flatly, his blue eyes boring into the other man intently. Holding the scientists gaze until the shorter man relented, Nate then pointed the gun upwards, and de-cocked the hammer but kept it in hand as he looked around the room once more then sighed; "I had hoped to have things better in hand by now, but no one is perfect, and no plan survives first contact with the enemy, or an ally for that matter."

Slowly sitting back down, Nate tapped his index finger on the frame of his sidearm, then laid it on the table top, his hand still resting over it protectively, his the frown of deep and rapid thought darkening his face before he looked to Preston and nodded once, the other Minuteman shrugging, then reaching into a heavy leather pouch at his back and pulling out a rolled piece of thin recycled paper, backed with fresh leather, which he then set down in the middle of the table.

"I want each of you to look at this, it is a shortened, simplified copy of the original US Constitution with the bill of rights, followed by the Minutemen Charter. Attached is a treaty. We have less embellished versions for each of you to take back to your headquarters or bases of operation. We will meet again within the next ten days, I'll send runners to each of you, at which time other representatives from other factions will also have been met with, and be here," putting his pistol back into its holster, Nate then waved them away with a final warning; "Until such a time, I expect the current ceasefire agreement to stand as such, we will respect everyone's territory as it currently stands, any violations however, will be met with force in kind to the sort of violation. If you people can all play nice for the next week or so, then I have high hopes we can end the needless bloodshed, then get to ending the rust devils, and bringing the remains of the Operators and the Gunners down, and finally get about the business of rebuilding the Commonwealth. Get out of here, I have work to do."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: So sorry this took so long to put up, I have had more drama in the last 6 weeks than at any point in the last 6 years of my life.  
Stick around at the end for Replies to the Reviews on the last chapter, and for a few questions you can answer!  
Enjoy the show!**

* * *

_**Trust Doesn't Rust**_

"So you mean to tell me that this plague of raiders, has no known localized base?" Preston Garvey tilted his head incredulously towards the sun glass wearing "Merchant" as the other man tended to his Brahmin, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. Shrugging as he tightened a rope on the pile of containers full of only he knew what, the man finally paused, and lit the smoke, taking in a bit of it before making a show of blowing the smoke up into the air; "Nothing I've seen or heard leads to any sort hideout or outpost or headquarters or anything of the sort." He took a proper drag this time, and after looking around the training yard of Sanctuary, he finally lifted his glasses up to look the other man in the eye, a rarity not to be missed; "None of my contacts have been able to run down anything useful, and three times in the last month I've tried to track or trail them, I got close one time, but then had to play deaf and dumb and give up a few dozen caps to not get vaporized by their trailers."

Deacon took another long pull from his smoke before sighing it all out and rubbing at his nose; "These guys are good, crazy as any raiders I've ever heard of, but organized, like the Operators from Nuka World were, and a whole lot smarter, like almost as smart as the Brotherhood, or maybe even the Mechanist, but they are twitchy. Paranoid in ways I could learn from."

"That's saying something." Preston said dryly as he watched a full Platoon of fresh recruits doing jumping jacks. The fact that it was the first full Platoon of Recruits to be gathered, and start training together in the still somewhat short history of the Minutemen, was not lost on either man. A full 128 member class was nothing to discount or ignore, but with people now coming to the commonwealth looking for safety since word of the alliance broke out, the population growth went from steady to rapid within only a few short months. But it had done wonders for recruitment, both for the Minutemen and the Brotherhood of Steel, although the former were getting the lion's share of the new blood, if only because their standers where more broad than the latter.

Logistically speaking, the recently named "New Boston Alliance of the Commonwealth" NBAC for short, or better known as "en'back" was built by Garvey and Reynolds, almost from the ground up, around the Minutemen. The two Bostonians having shed buckets of sweat, more than a few drops of blood, and untold numbers of bullets, power cells, and miles marched from one end of the former Commonwealth to the other, making deals, helping people, and building up some semblance of civilization from the wreck and ruins of the last one to have occupied the space over two hundred years ago. Given that as recently as last year, any sort of alliance between more than two or three of the many factions that had either grown up in, or moved into the area, was thought as impossible, yet now NBAC was running along smoother than many had ever dreamed or hoped. Save for the unyielding resolve, hope and dedication of Colonel, alongside the vision, charisma and acumen of the General, it would have never happened. Yet, here they all were.

"Either way," Deacon said as he finished off his smoke, "I'll keep looking for information on where the Rust Devil leaders might be located. Speaking of, how goes the planning for Quincy?"

Garvey arched an eyebrow at the intelligence operative; "You're not supposed to know about that. Not yet at least."

Deacon shrugged, a slight smirk on his lips as he dusted his overcoat off with his hands; "I hear things mostly, but I can also see the obvious when given a chance. And it's obvious that with the buildup of the last six months, you and the General are looking to take back Quincy, now that Gunners Plaza has been cleared out. It's their last major stronghold in the south, and taking it back would not only break the anchor for their hold along the interstate, but it would allow the Minutemen to get their first real victory against a valid threat, instead of just clobbering raiders every few weeks."

Garvey took his hat off and shook his head as he wiped at some sweat; "Okay so you figured it all out. Since the Institute surrendered to us, and the Brotherhood never took any major steps against us, we had all of this build up and training for a big fight, but now all of the real fighting we've done this last year, was in and around Nuka World, cleaning up the last of the raider gangs, and establishing the outpost, and building up the settlements. Other than the Rust Devils, the Gunners are the only consistent threat outside of old Boston proper, so we are looking to get all of the new recruits bloodied and the old hands back into fighting form."

"And," Deacon said as he unhitched the Brahmin from the feed trough it was enjoying; "Until you can lock down the Rust Devil's leadership, you can't wipe them out, but you know where the Gunners are, and where their leadership is located."

"Exactly." Preston said with a nod, "Then, we resupply, tend to our wounds, and then march on Old Boston, and clear out the ghouls and Super Mutants once and for all."

Deacon whistled brightly; "Now that brother, is a tall order."

The Colonel shrugged as he hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the new recruits training in the space behind them; "We've almost doubled our numbers this last year, and the Brotherhood said they would cover air support, and help us coordinate with our artillery, as well as inserting shock troops where needed, and with the Institute's transporter relay in our control, we can move supply's and casualties in and out of hot spots instantly. Besides, we have five full battalions now, that's one thousand two-hundred and seventy people, not counting the other two we have as reserves, scattered across all the settlements."

"Huh," Deacon grunted as he adjusted his hat and the goggles that sat atop them; "And everyone is buying into this citizen soldier gambit the General has pitched?" he looked back over at the recruits as they started practicing reloading drills with their Service Rifles, courtesy of the Gunsmiths and the repurposed assembly lines building parts right there in Sanctuary Hills, inside a recently built two story concrete building that boasted plenty of "keep out" signs and was under heavy guard. In the Railroad Spy's estimation, outside of Diamond City and the Castle, Sanctuary was likely the most secure and fortified settlement in the Commonwealth, beating out Boston Airport and Gunners Plaza by a decent margin, if only because while the Brotherhood had Power Armor and a giant killer robot, and the Gunners had decent numbers and weapons, Sanctuary had entrenched and fortified earthen walls with reinforced wooden barriers and sandbags, along with an ever expanding concrete wall that was going up a little every day now it seemed. Given that the only direct road to the settlement went by an equally fortified but much smaller outpost build around the Red Rocket just outside Concord meant that any sizable attack had to break itself on the outpost first, and given the multilayered walls, heavily armored guard posts and reinforced watchtowers, and the network of rebuilt turrets ringing the leveled roof of the location, it would take a Brotherhood strike force to even crack it. It was a small but well defended and appointed fortress not unlike the Castle, if only much smaller. It didn't hurt that they where within quick walk from Sanctuary Hills and the rebuilt and fortified bridge, and its large armored gates and watch towers.

"So far it's a popular idea." Preston said as he returned his hat, now bearing a blue and black painted eagle on the front, "For the longest time, folks looked after themselves and their neighbors, and sometimes would spend a week or two at the Castle or on a patrol." He gestured to the Brahmin Deacon had as he went on; "Now that the trade caravans have picked up to the point that we have a working economy, we can offer people pay on top of the gear and training we provide. Taking a lesson from an old library book his wife was fond of, Nate figured that contracts for service made sense. Given how much open land is now within our territory, we're offering some caps, discounts on supplies and a patch of ground as compensation for service, and the longer you serve, the better the deal." Garvey smiled at the other mans reaction, then laughed when Deacon finally shook his head and sighed: "Too bad I'm not cut out for farming or marching, I think it's a tempting deal otherwise."

"You do realize, that you are wearing sunglasses, while you have goggles strapped to your head, right Deacon?" Garvey asked humorously.

"Uhhh, yeah… well, I mean—"

Static suddenly sounded from the handheld radio Preston wore: _'Alert, this is Minutemen command, Colonel Garvey report to Homebase communications center, Radio Freedom is broadcasting a general call for assistance to respond to a raider attack near Nordhangen Beach, believed to be the Rust Devils! Colonel Garvey please respond!'_

"Speaking of the devils." The Colonel sighed before dashing off with a wave towards a rebuilt home in faded yellow paint with a glowing neon "Radio" sign over the door.

"Colonel Garvey sir!" a rough faced and balding Tech Sergeant jerked to his feet and saluted as the younger, dark skinned Field Officer all but exploded into the secure back room of the house, a grim look in his eyes, and a slight frown on his lips as he then pushed the door shut behind himself then stepped behind one of the two pairs of desks covered in radios and stacks of recycled paper notebooks. The slightly younger Com's Sergeant behind the other pair of desks snapped his fingers loudly over his head, then put his fingers to his lips, calling for quiet as he pressed the ancient set of headphones tighter to his ear before bringing up a microphone and speaking rapidly; "Say again Crusher Actual, this is Homebase, I do not copy your last transmission! Repeat force projections, over."

The hiss of static and incomprehensible words leaked from the frayed earpiece, but while Preston couldn't understand what was said, the non-commissioned communications officer apparently could, as his face paled, even as his hand scribbled notes furiously, before he replied; "Confirmed, Eagle is onsite, will advise on situation, stand by to be reconnected with Commmand, Homebase out."

Lowering the mic, he then scratched out a few more words, and handed the note to the Colonel as he gave a verbal report; "Third Battalion, second Platoon, Charlie Company, or Crusher as they prefer, had their units get split up near Nordhagen when Raiders attacked."

"How bad is it?" Preston asked as he skimmed the notes, and noted the reporting units and their assigned leaders.

The Sergeant grimaced "First Unit got wiped out when two pairs of robots came crashing out of the buildings by the beach firing rockets and miniguns like it was the end of the world, Second Unit was by the bridge, so then put up a flare, and dropped smoke markers before pulling back to the settlement, artillery called to confirm and Sherriff Johnson of Nordhangen confirmed it right before he caught a laser in the leg, so everyone in a half mile that could see blue smoke, unloaded five shots each and turned the bots to scrap, but no sooner had the last shell fallen then two dozen Rust Devils with Eyebot support came charging across the bridge guns blazing."

"Shit." Garvey muttered as he rescanned the notes and saw who was leading Third Battalion, and as such First and Second Units.

"Second Unit gave 'em hell, and the Squad from Nordhagen joined in, they was already on alert from hearing the initial ambush so they broke out the minigun cart and chew up the far side of the bridge. A Brotherhood Recon team that was training at Fort Strong, came running and started picking off leaders as soon as they got into range, but they took some casualties as well, and their Vertabird was grounded after it lost a rotor trying to sweep in and provide some aircover. No word yet on if they are going to send more help, apparently the Gunners thought now would be a good time to harass the Airport, they sent a wide band alert about coming under rocket fire when we reestablished contact with Nordhagen." The sandy haired "Com-Sarg" shrugged as Preston sighed and tucked the note into a jacket pocket.

"The Castle has a whole Battalion garrisoned there in the new barracks' for training," he mused aloud, rubbing his neck for a moment before reaching back and pulling his rifle from his shoulder and checking out the loaded mag and then replacing it with a firm slap; "But Fifth Battalion is raw, green as a mutant's ass, and just as bad. Who else do we have close by?" he asked as he replaced his rifle behind his shoulder and looked to the peg board and it's troop deployment listings.

"Uhh, well we got a ping from First Battalion… First Platoon, Alpha Company Unit One, First Group." The Sargent cleared his throat as Preston arched an eyebrow at him; "They were heading back to the Castle for resupply after escorting a big shipment of ammo and supplies to Hangmans Alley. They said they were on their way to, uh, help out."

For his part the Colonel didn't react, even as he searched for "the Fighting First A1" on the board and didn't seem them. "And, who dare I ask is leading the Fightin' First?"

"Uh… General Renyolds was in command of First Battalion while they rotated through Caravan Convoy Escort duty at Bunker Hill this month, so I would guess—"

"Damnit Nate!" Garvey exclaimed as he turned on his heel and barked a parting order at the Communications room; "Get the Rest of First Battalion's officers on the radio, tell them I said they are to drop everything and get to Nordhagan as fast as they can, and repeat that message to the County Crossing and the Castle. Tell them that Fifth Batt is now on watch, and that Second Battalion is to scramble all men to march there as well, double time!"

"Yes sir!"

Storming out of the Communications Center, Preston made for the main gate, and the Security Building, where a construction project was well underway on the recently expanded rooftop. Cutting behind the established "Town Hall" and past a small orchard of Mutfruit trees he followed the alleyway behind the reinforced concrete workshop where arms and ammo was produced and came back onto the main street across from the Medical Center, and the General Goods store before hooking left towards the two story metal skinned Security Building. Adorned with the flags of the Minutemen, The Brotherhood of Steel and a large freshly remade New England Commonwealth flag that was little more than the biggest, whitest flag shaped piece of cloth they could find, painted with a red cross and a green tree at the center, the icons of the Minutemen, the Brotherhood of Steel, the Railroad, the Institute as well as Diamond City, Goodneighbor and the Atom Cats where spaced evenly in the top left corner. It was the Flag of the New Boston Alliance of the Commonwealth. And it was, in Nate's own words; "Fugly as hell, and perfect for the job."

On the top of the second floor of the sturdy little building, was a wide round platform of rebuilt steel grates and a number of colored lights. Standing next to the staircase at the top of the scaffolding frame that held everything in place, Sturges was fiddling with some kind of power switch and muttering to himself as a Brotherhood Scribe installed yet another colored light cluster on the metal decking.

"Sturges!" Garvey called out as he climbed the exterior staircase, two at a time.

"Preston! What's going on?" The mechanic replied as he lowered his screwdriver and the power switch to the small work table behind him.

"Is our bird good to go?"

"What? You mean the Vertabird I've been piecing together with Scribe Macey the last few weeks?" Sturges replied with a bewildered look on his face; "We got the turbines working, but we can't get the wings and rotors to fully rotate down for high speed flight yet. The Flight computer is—"

"But does it work otherwise? Can it fly?" Garvey pressed him as he reached the top of the stairs, a hard look on his face.

Sturges regarded his friend closely, the answered, "Well sure, I mean it's speed is really limited in vertical flight mode, and we only just got the canopy replaced, and the tires are still flat so its still up on jackstands, up at the Vault garage, but yeah I guess it can fly. Why?"

"Nate and the Fightin' First are marching on Nordhagan to help out what's left of Third Battalion after the Rust Devils attacked." Preston said darkly, his gaze hard as he recounted the situation to his friend; "The Third has taken a lot of casualties, and a Brotherhood Recon team and their bird is trapped with them now after it crashed from battle damage. I'm scrambling forces from County Crossing, Bunker Hill and the Castle to get there, but I wanna take some of our spares here with me to go help out."

"That's a day's hard march at best, if you ignore the roads and don't come across any trouble. Which is why you want the Vertabird." Sturges said as it clicked into place for him.

"Exactly," the Colonel replied, "even at half speed, in a bird, we can cover that distance in under an hour, swing around by Fort Strong and drop in to reinforce the defenders, make a push across the bridge towards Nate and the other forces, then roll them up the coast."

"Its gutsy, but doesn't that draw a lot of our people away from important places like Bunker Hill and County Crossing? I mean how many Rust Devils are we talking about here?" the mechanic asked.

"From the sounds of it, this is only the second biggest group we've seen, and they have been pounding at the bridge trying to get across for nearly an hour now I'd guess." The colonel replied.

Sturges frowned as he stepped past Preston and started down the stairs; "Scribe Macey's up at the garage working one some rebuilt computer parts for the turret network's auxiliary control, I'll need him to double check the faults in the Bird's flight computer, see if there is a work around, because right now it doesn't want to fly, but I'm guessing there is some military emergency override the Brotherhood knows about." Upon reaching the ground, the mechanic started jogging down the street towards the north entrance, the "back door" of Sanctuary that led straight up the hill to Vault 111, and the large machine shop and garage that had been established there to exploit the reactor, and abundance of salvable parts and resources to be had, to support some of the larger projects Nate and Sturges had cooked up over the last two years. Namely the salvaged Vertabird, but also more practically the Brahmin carts built off of salvaged car chassis' that had become almost commonplace along the trade routes that supported the blossoming economy of the Commonwealth over the last year.

"How fast can it be ready?" Preston asked as they crossed the footbridge; "I have no idea how long it will take for things to go worse or get better." He waited for Sturges answer as the two turned and trudged up the hill.

"We just refilled the fuel tanks this morning to prep a final turbine test after lunch," the mechanic replied as they walked past the old Vault-Tec observation and control post to the cobbled together metal hanger that sat just off of the horizontal Vault door, a matching concrete structure with a wooden roof stood right next to it, and the sounds of both hand tools and power tools could be heard, cutting, welding, and bolting steel and wood together as they paused and Sturges waved the Brotherhood Scribe over from a small half shack made from scrap wood and cloth tarps filled to the oversized roof with junked computers and other assorted devices; "I'd call it at twenty minutes from the word go. But Macey might disagree. Hey Macey, over here!"

The Brotherhood Scribe set down a bundle of chips and wires he was untangling and walked over, giving the Brotherhood fist over heart salute to Garvey, and nodding to Sturges; "Sir, Boss, what can I help you with?" the short, sandy haired Scribe asked as he came to an at ease stance.

"Preston here wants to know how long it would take to the 'Bird up and flying for an emergency run." The Mechanic replied, gesturing to the dirty but sturdy looking patchwork of aircraft parts behind the Scribe.

For his part, the Scribe only coughed once and then rubbed at the back of his neck for a few seconds before replying; "Well sir… Uh, I just ran another diagnostic after we finished fueling her, about half of the flight system shorted out, and all of the breakers blew."

"Say what?!" Sturges exclaimed in a panic, his eyes wide as he looked to a pile of computer parts and a blackened electrical panel stacked up on the floor of the craft.

"Oh but that's not a problem!" Macey retorted quickly as he waved at the seemingly forever inert collection of parts; "See I found that it wasn't the computers that where the problem, but a faulty conduit! The regulator chips had been misaligned, because we misidentified the exact model of the Vertabird. See this, that is to say, the fuselage is, or was, a one off experimental variant, the build plate states it was an XV B02F modified with a more modular avionics package to allow for simple AI interfaces to be loaded in to assist with—"

"Macey!" Preston barked exasperatedly; "We don't need a history lesson, we need a flying machine! Now!"

The scribe blushed then nodded; "Yessir! As I was saying… Uh, well the bottom line is I need five minutes to finish this replacement module and upload the copy of Codsworth's AIOS so that the power regulators will stop overloading all the other systems. Which, I might add means full speed forward flight."

Preston looked from the Scribe to Sturges, and then back again, a big smile lighting across his face; "Well hot damn! Get me two Gatling guns hooked up, and I'll have a Group of Riflemen up here with me in fifteen so we can go!" and with that he turned and sprinted back down the hill calling for volunteers, the Sergeant at arms and the Quartermaster.

"Boss?" Scribe Macey asked Sturges with clear confusion in his voice, his brown eyes blinking rapidly behind his glasses; Where the hell is he going?"

Sturges had already pulled a wrench out from his tool belt and was walking towards the Bird. He flipped the tool over in his hand but he paused to look at the Scribe and laughed; "Why, to go and save the General of course! What else?"

* * *

**PSA/N: OKAY! So first things first, I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it.**  
**Secondly, to reply to the reviews; For Paladin Bailey: firstly, THANK YOU SO VERY FUCKING MUCH! Nextly, I agree, "War Never Ends" has lost some of the resolution and focus since it shifted to the Lone Wanderer and Riley's Rangers. I love the characters, and the writing is still solid, but the pacing has really fallen off, and the building tension is almost lost, even thought the last 2 chapters are still well done, they are too short and likely should have been put together as a single chapter but that is just one wastelanders opinion. Hopefully that is fixed with the next update, whenever it drops.**

**For "Guest": I fucking love it too, hence why I'm writing it, and I intend to write it for as long as it makes sense to me as a story. As to why Piper would be with Preston, if Nate does not romance Piper, Preston would be a logical and reasonable second choice, since he and (my version at least) Nate have many of the same qualities that Piper would find attractive, and in my story, Nate was never able to fall in love with Piper because she reminds him just a little too much of Nora, looks kinda like her, is smart, plucky and brave like she was, and just like his wife, has an almost kamikaze like dedication to the truth, to justice, and what is right. While attractive of course, for Nate, I just don't see a guy like him, having gone through literally everything he went through from serving in one war, to surviving the "last" war, to trying to avoid another, while trying to do his part in rebuilding human civilization as we understand it, allowing himself too much emotional attachment in the romantic sense just yet. Not to say it could not happen, but at this point, Nate is actually suffering with a lot of guilt, emotional trauma, and in order to cope, he is in "work mode" to the point that everything is compartmentalized so he can handle the little things, without losing sight of the bigger picture. He is truly a man out of time, and out of his element, and the only thing he knows how to do is fight, and work towards goals. it is a common coping mechanism used by real world veterans, and survivors of impactful events who have some form of PTSD or other "ticks" from having themselves pushed to and even beyond the impressive limits of humanity.**

**Now finally for the questions!**

**1) Have any specific in game characters or locations you want me to try and write about? If so, pick 2 and let me know in a Review!**  
**2) Have any particular part of my cannon you want to know more about? Want me to write an entry about it? Well let me know in a Review!**  
**3) Have any interest in my OTHER Fallout story ideas? Same as before, let me know in a Review!  
4) Want fake internet cookies? You know the drill!**


	4. Chapter 4

_**For The Brotherhood**_

"Star Paladin Danse reporting as requested General!"

The clank of a power armor salute resounded softly in the office space of the Red Rocket outpost, the mechanical sounds of an ammunition press the only consistent ambient noise aside from a news update from Travis on DC Radio playing on a set mounted on a small shelf in the workshop space of the small fortress. A soft hiss of a cooling power actuator was the only other sound from the suit of T-60c Power Armor, which due to its streamlined bulk, took up much of the small space.

Standing up from the desk and computer terminal, General Reynolds gave a casual salute, then smiled, extending his hand to the other solider in greeting; "No need to be so formal Danse, as you said, you were requested, not ordered."

Shaking hands, Danse visibly relaxed and returned the smile; "Fair enough Nate, it's good to see you again, how long has it been anyways?"

"Since we just got to visit?" Nate asked as he leaned against the far wall and folded his hands over his chest; "Better part of nine months, but only two since we last saw each other in the field. How goes the Arc Jet project by the way?"

Danse nodded in agreement then replied, "Salvage operations just wrapped up at Arc Jet's offices and the documentation and resources have been moved to Fort Hagen Hanger, where Brotherhood Scribes and Minutemen Engineers are currently assembling the salvaged hulls of almost a dozen craft of four types." Danse rubbed his face lightly then shrugged; "Efforts at the Airport are at a standstill because we've literally cleaned out and salvaged everything possible, and with Liberty Prime's help, have gathered up every airliner in a five mile radius and have pieced together two whole aircraft from it. No word yet on if they will fly or not, but… Well, until we can get enough refined fuel, it doesn't matter."

Nate laughed in reply, "Well with the help of Zao, repairs on the Yangtze are almost done, and with the other salvaged boats, it looks like we may finally get a navy together. Ironsides and the Constitution are almost ready to leave the dry dock at Croup Mannor, and thank goodness we got those rockets away from it. I want to eventually try and fully restore the ship like it was before the Great War, but for now, we need something that can patrol the coast. Far Harbor has been sending messages of coastal raiders harassing them, and we've had other reports from Kingsport as well."

"I saw the intelligence brief you sent to Elder Maxson," Danse nodded in reply, his face tightening up into a grim frown; "Our assessment of the situation mirrors your own, whoever it is, they have either rediscovered or improvised a way to build simple yet sturdy enough ships to allow for some decent over water travel, so that they can raid the outlying coastal settlements and they have covered some distance to do it."

"Right," Reynolds said as he pointed to a faded road map of the coast, and pointed at the top; "Maine is literally a five day slow boat ride north of here, just about three from Far Harbor, so I think we can expect to see some scouting parties probing along the coast, maybe as far south as the Airport or even Spectacle Island within a month or two." He said indicating the two well marked spots on the map.

"Nordhagen Beach could also be a target, since all of its defenses are oriented along the bridge to the mainland," Danse pointed out, but then shook his head; "However with the recent build up at Fort Strong, anyone bold enough to do it would find themselves flanked almost instantly."

"Since the Rust Devil attack, we have looked into establishing a proper settlement at East City Downs," Nate said tapping the chunk of land on the map between County Crossing and Nordhagen, "I would rather do that, over just having an outpost, but so far our efforts have been focused more to the south, on rebuilding Quincy, and building up Murkwater and Sommervile."

"Garvey's personal project?" Danse asked as shifted his stance slightly, a soft hiss emitting from the armor's knees; "He and I spoke at length about it before the attack on Gunners Plaza. He seemed convinced that reestablishing Quincy would be the perfect way to have the final word against the Gunners."

"And," Nate said with a small smile; "I completely agree, after their leadership was wiped out at both Quincy and near Saugus Iron Works, given the surrender of the remaining Gunners at Vault 75, there has been little question who has won the Commonwealth, but it further removes doubt for the site of the Minuteman's greatest defeat, to be the site of one of their greatest achievements. But it's cost us a lot in caps and time thus far."

"Better caps and time, than blood and lives." Danse said softly as he eyed the map for a few minutes more, then looked back to Reynolds inquisitively; "This was all covered in the recent correspondence between you and Elder Maxson, yet you then follow up with a request to speak with me personally." His feet shifted slightly, the scrape of rubber coated hardened steel on frayed ancient linoleum was not unlike boots on dried leafs; "So why am I really here Nate? The subtext implied it was something major."

The one time Vault dweller sighed then set his jaw, gesturing out into the small former lobby; "Let's take a walk Danse, this is going to be a bit complicated."

The Brotherhood warrior nodded and then lead the way out into the now enclosed space under the extended awning where the coolant and fuel pumps had once resided. An ammunition press hummed and clanked along, turning out rough and unlabeled boxes made of recycled cardboard filled with what should be five-fifty-six rifle rounds, if the size of the boxes was any clue, the SR-16 and R-91 type rifles having become the standard weapons of choice for the Minutemen, although a new and refined version of their signature laser musket had recently been issued as well an extended and reinforced version of the Institute energy rifle, cast in a pale blue high impact plastic, rather than painted as the first versions had been.

Stepping out of the reinforced concrete walls, Danse then followed Nathan out onto the recently cleared and patched road into Concorde, itself in the midst of a reclamation, crude wood and metal scaffolding was sprouting up beside buildings, old vehicles and structures, ruble and debris was being gathered into strategic piles, to be sorted, the materials reclaimed or repurposed as deemed necessary. A patrol of eight Minutemen in reinforced leather armors over reclaimed Army Fatigues marched down the main street while civilians and engineers worked on repairing walls, doors, and floors and on building new structures where old and destroyed buildings had once stood. A newly built sign that Danse had only barely noticed the first time he had passed it, was being painted now, and it proclaimed in big bold letters: 'WELCOME TO CONCORDE!'

"Practice for Lexington, which will be practice for Boston proper, one day." Nate explained as they turned east and skirted the north side of the soon to be reborn town.

Danse hummed in understanding and agreement, as he watched the earnest and enthusiastic labor taking place.

"We're taking the long way around to Fort Starlight," Nate explained as they left the mark of civilization behind them in relative silence, "I want to check up on the new batch of Protectrons being outfitted there, see how they and the newly rebuilt Gen two synth support troops are doing before I start intergrading them into my infantry units."

"Are you really committed to using the Synths in combat?" Danse asked worriedly, "The Brotherhood is abiding the accord thus far, but using these things, even the older and less insidious versions is going to put a strain on the working relationship, and Elder Maxson is not yet ready to return to the Capital Wasteland until he is sure than Lyons Outpost is safe, and our interests in the area are protected. If you do this, he might decide they aren't, and if so he'll put off his long term plans to push west after returning to the Citadel. It would make him less than cooperative in leaving peacefully."

"I am aware," Nate replied lightly, "Which is why the Synths are only going to be supporting the supply and engineering units. The Protectons will be used alongside the new MP corps Nick has been training with Diamond City's New Chief of Security. That frees up more men for the actual combat units I'm building up with our reorganization efforts post Gunner conflict. Even the Brotherhood uses mister handy's and mister gutsy's for hazardous or simple work and security."

"Affirmative. Maxson should be able to accept that as reasonable." Danse replied with some relief, understanding the logic of the choice.

"But," Nate continued slowly; "that does bring me around to the point behind me having you come here and talk with me."

Danse arched an eyebrow, and gave a side glance to his friend and fellow warrior, a question wanting to form on his lips, but the totality of the unknown nature of this meeting kept him from articulating the barely formed inquiry.

"Danse…" Nate began, then stopped and sighed, running his hands through his recently close cut hair; "There is no easy way to say this, and all of the hard proof I have is in the Institute, which I know you would rather not visit right now, so I'm asking you to take a big chance and just trust that what I'm about to tell you is in fact the truth, however harsh it might be."

Danse stopped and looked his friend hard and long in the face, then nodded once; "If I can trust you with my life, and to forge an alliance between the Brotherhood and not just the Minutemen, but the Institute and the Railroad as well as everyone else, without having a war, I can trust you with anything, especially the truth."

Nathan gave a single nod, then pulled out a small folded piece of fresh, clean white paper and handed it to him as he spoke; "This is a printout from the Synth Retention division, pulled right from their own dedicated mainframe and server. Danse, you are a Synth, designation M7-97, one of the first Gen three's to escape the Institute thanks to the Railroad."

Danse, for his part, just looked at the printed out information in blank shock, his eyes scanning the page over and over before he crumpled it in his power armored grasp and let out a shuddering sigh; "I… It… It explains, so… so very much." His jaw set slow but hard, his brown eyes narrowing as he stared off at the horizon. His gaze suddenly shifted to the slightly obscured image of the Prydwen, bared tree branches and new, pale green growth blocking much of it from his gaze in the pleasantly clear and sunny day

"Elder Maxson… When he finds out, I'll be marked for death, branded a traitor." Danse said fatally, the edge of his voice leaning towards sorrow.

"No Danse, " Nate said firmly, his hand resting on an armored shoulder as a fist, the force behind his words unyielding and final; "I refuse to let a good man die because of ignorance or habit or hate, not when I can do something about it." He held fast as Danse turned his head and looked back at him, with shock and bewilderment, a spark of hope drifting behind his eyes as he searched for an answer.

"But, you just said I'm a Synth!" Danse replied, incredulously the hope in his face struggling to survive the fear and dread welling up inside his chest.

"But nothing Paladin," Reynolds admonished him, "You're a damn fine solider, a decent man, and a good friend of mine and of the people. You deserve a chance to keep living, to keep doing what you have been doing, serving humanity, shielding it, guiding it, fighting for it."

"But the Brotherhood… I can't. Nate," Danse said, taking a deep breath, before closing his eyes, "I need to be the example, not the exception. You need to take me to the Prydwen, let me settle my affairs, and allow Elder Maxson to render judgment." He opened his eyes, as he tensed slightly, his armor shifting with a faint squeak as his shoulders set.

Nate looked up at him for a moment, then took his hand off of the armored shoulder, before hauling back and punching Danse square in the face.

"Hey! Watch it!" Danse spluttered as he shook his head, and licked at his split and swelling lip, as he took a single step back, his eyes dazed slightly, "What the _hell_ Reynolds?"

"Fuck Maxson!" Nate shouted, as he rubbed his bruised hand then pointed squarely at Danse, power armor be damned; "That arrogant blind and blood thirsty _kid_ has been one of the hardest challenges I've faced since I pried the ring from my dead wife's frozen finger, and stumbled into this hellhole of a world!" he lowered his finger and started pacing, rubbing his hands together as he ranted at his friend; "The Brotherhood has abandoned some of the most vital core ideals of the Military, despite taking the foundational culture of discipline and forging it into something the wasteland has needed since the last bomb dropped. And it's now become effectively a religious cult in everything but name and decree!"

Danse recoiled slightly, but the stricken look on his face was based less in less shock, and more in defeat at the words his friend had spoken. In his heart, or at the least, the innermost thoughts he could have, there was agreement with the scathing critique. As much faith as Danse had put into the Brotherhood, it was as much as the identity they had given him, as it was in the stated noble mission to save and preserve humanity from itself. In his most private moments, Danse had in fact questioned more than a few of the finer points of the ideology at various times when he saw the results of the more distasteful things the Brotherhood had done in its quests.

"But what the hell am I meant to do now Nate?" Danse at last asked as he looked away at the sky towards the airport, the faint haze of rain slowly rolling in from the sea colored the air grey.

"Nothing yet," Nathan replied quietly, "I've had the data drives archived, and I have the only live copy on my secure terminal at the Institute, this is just an abridged overview of the details. I was able to match the DNA sequences up myself on another terminal. Assuming the Brotherhood's data is accurate, as well as the Institute's, then the codes match. Beyond that," he shrugged then resumed walking; "At this time, it serves my goals to keep this between us. Call it a little friendly but life threatening blackmail if you must—"

"That's a hell of a way to put it!" Danse interrupted as he walked alongside the General, who was smiling grimly.

"The bottom line is I need to know exactly what Maxson is thinking." Nate said plainly, "Impulsive and brash as he is, his ability to compartmentalize information would do the pre-war military proud."

Danse frowned in thought as they walked along in silence for a few minutes. At last he sighed loudly as they came over a low hill, having looped around the eastern edges of the ruins of Concord; "Long term, I can't stay in the Brotherhood, Maxson has listened to you so far out of respect for your prior service, and in forging the Minutemen into a competent and organized force for good here in the Commonwealth, one that has saved a great number of people, many times without asking for compensation." A small sad smile touched his face for a moment as he explained; "Elder Owen Lyons, and his daughter Sara who succeeded him, both had very charitable hearts, and both believed that the Brotherhood could be reformed, turned into so much more, something not unlike what the Minutemen have become, and I think seeing you now has reminded Elder Maxson of their ideals, many of which, he has sadly moved away from in pursuit of others who are being reckless with technology. But even so," the Paladin's face darkened slightly as he groused to himself, "The hardliner traditionalists he convinced to rejoin us in the Capitol, have had their sway over him. Maybe Maxson could be turned away, made to think more like you do, to reason it out in a practical and moral method, but I do not hold much hope for that."

"Old habits do die hard." Nate replied as they now cut from the road over a hill, another stretch of decaying asphalt led under a weathered rail bridge, just beyond that Starlight Drive-in, now renamed "Fort Starlight" given it's impressive fortifications, and role as a Minuteman manufacturing stronghold and training grounds.

"I only knew Elder Lyons and his daughter for a few years, but I know that Arthur looked up to them both, and it was rumored that he actually had a crush on Sara when he was still but a Squire, they believed in the work the Brotherhood had undertaken in the Capital Wasteland with project purity, even when the Outcasts and the Elders back in the west had branded Lyons as Persona Non Grata, they held him in grudging respect, doing all they could to steer clear of one another worked more often than not." Danse shrugged once more, "It took the Lone Wanderer and Elder Maxson to bring them back together."

"The Lone Wanderer has an almost mythical reputation with the Brotherhood," Nate said, gladly taking the diversion, "anytime the Capitol Wasteland is mentioned and they come up, it's like you're talking about some hero from a comic book or old action movie. If not for the fact that everyone who knows about them agrees with how driven and incredible they were, I'd be hard pressed to believe it, that some kid from a vault would be so central to saving everyone."

Danse laughed at that, "I know the feeling, but having met her in person, I can confirm that she is every bit as impressive as the stories, if only because to look at her, you wouldn't think she was as capable until you see her in action. But she isn't a kid any more. Most of her exploits happened ten years ago, even so, the end of the Enclave came almost a year after Project Purity was finally instated."

Nathan nodded "Hmm, Maxson said that doctor Li has gotten the programming for a second site completed, all that's needed is to build up the hardware. How goes that end?"

Danse shook his head; "Most of the base components are easy enough to make, many of them are salvaged from pre-war utility sites to start with, but the key components that make it work so efficiently are one off builds. We have the schematics on file, but some of the needed resources are hard to find no matter where you look." He paused as they stepped up to the gate, the hum of electricity fading signaling the locks being powered down. "Most of it is beyond my own knowledge. Thankfully our scribe's think that they can build two smaller devices to be installed in Boston to filter the main water sources for the central water works."

"Right," Reynolds said in agreement; "The reservoir and lakes. Our engineers have started working on repairing the sewage and service systems so that they will all be linked together, which should make it easier to filter out the largest sources of pollution."

"It's still a monumental task given the limitations we're facing." Danse replied, as he followed Reynolds through the reinforced gates and past the guard posts positioned around the overhang of the old projection house and concessions stand, now turned into a command post with radio antennae and spot lights in place.

The central area, which had been cratered by an unexploded bomb so long ago, was now built up with an impressive three story wooden building, constructed around a large water purifier powered by a series of wind and solar generators, and hooked into the small localized power grid, running off of a salvaged and rebuilt fusion plant, housed in a reinforced concrete building built against the large projection screen and it's still sturdy steel frame. Guards were posted at regular intervals on squat towers build along the inside of the reinforced earthen and wooden walls that ringed the whole location. Small wooden and metal shacks, housed work benches, and produced Robots, weapons and armor in reasonable numbers, but two large barracks housed enlisted troops, fresh from introductory boot camp at the Castle, and now getting more focused training in the open "yard" area next to the new fortresses hub.

"General Reynolds, sir!" an older, lanky and dark skinned man wearing surprisingly clean, rough spun, blue tinted combat fatigues a light blue set of leather armor and wearing an officers cap with a Lieutenant's double white musket painted on the front came to attention and saluted, his salt and pepper moustache bristled over the slight grin as his gesture was returned promptly.

"Lieutenant Jefferson," Nate greeted before they then shook hands; "How does Fort Starlight suit you thus far?" he swept his hand over the whole of the settlement as Danse watched from a few respectful paces behind.

"Right down to my toes sir!" the aged officer laughed before pointing out a squad of Troops fussing over their equal number of blue and white painted Protectrons; "We're only a day or two away from shipping out the next batch of our tin can constables to the moderately built up settlements like Taffington and Finch, and the MP's will then go onto Outpost Zimosa, Revere Station, and the Airport, right on time."

Nate smiled broadly; "Excellent to hear Robert, that will free up manpower for the larger settlements and forts, especially Quincy and Vault 88."

"Yes'ir, speaking of which, the latest shipment of Caravan Guard armor was sent here by mistake, and the South Boston Red Rocket got our shipment of laser parts. I've already contacted Colonel Shaw, and she said that it will be sorted on the next Caravan run."

Nate frowned slightly at that then shrugged; "I hope this hasn't hindered Protectron production at all?"

Robert shook his head in reply; "No'sir, we got the chassis' all done and the legs attached, but we have yet to charge the power supplies, and we can do that as soon as the arms are finished when we get the laser parts in."

"Good work," Nate said nodding, "If there is nothing else, me and Paladin Danse will be in my office, see that we're not disturbed unless it's urgent."

"Sir!" Jefferson snapped another salute then turned smartly on his heel and left them.

Nate led Danse into the old projection house, and up the stairs to the top, where a door led out to the remaining overhang, the very top held a small table, two chairs and a sleeping bag.

Danse disembarked from his power armor, and then climbed the last set of stairs and sat in the empty chair, a pair of chilled NukaCola's sat on the table between them, Nate opening them both and handing off one to the Paladin, before he took a long drink of his own.

"What I am going to suggest is simple Danse," Reynolds started quietly, keeping his gaze on his friend; "for the next six weeks, everything is going to be fine, but after that, I expect Maxson is going to want to establish a permanent outpost, and then go onto whatever his next objective is."

"The plan calls for a return to the Citadel in the Capitol wastes, then either a mission to Baltimore or possibly Charlotte." Danse replied, before sipping at his own NukaCola.

"In either event," Nate continued; "Brotherhood presence here in the commonwealth will be greatly reduced, and with that, the almost vital support they have given us in the last two major operations the Minutemen have undertaken. Even with the Relay and the Synths and our new capacity for building robots, and with Paladin, sorry, _Lieutenant Colonel,_ Brandis overseeing our most ambitious salvage project to date, it's going to be the better part of a year or more until we can even hope to compare to the tactical mobility the Brotherhood has lent us this last year." Nate polished off the last of his NukaCola and then set the bottle down firmly on the small table, "I won't bother trying to explain the boon it would be to us to have you stay here as the official liaison between the Brotherhood and the New Boston Alliance of the Commonwealth, what is more, you staying here keeps you away from Maxson, and would allow you to slowly reform the Brotherhood of Steel further from the outside, something I doubt he could fully stop from so far away."

"I see…" Danse said thoughtfully, before humming to himself then shrugging; "Lancer Captain Kells or Star Paladin Frayer would be the most likely choices before me, but I have a feeling you might end up twisting Elder Maxson's arm on the matter."

"Less twisting, and more asking pointedly and very politely," Nathan said with a smile; "The argument is actually pretty authentic on the surface and perfectly logical: I've known you longest, you were the first living member of the Brotherhood I met, and you made a favorable impression, and as such, I trust you, far more so than even Maxson, and while he might take that as a bit of the slight insult it is, it also lends to him favoring you for the post anyways, since it's not just me who trusts you to be… more charitable let's say, and thus easier accepted by the rest of the Alliance leadership and the people as a whole."

"Maxson would be a fool to ignore that." Danse replied, understanding washing across his features rapidly.

"And clearly, even he could admit that." Nate said, "What's more, it gives us the perfect cover to dig into your past, and help understand the Gen three Synths better, since you've clearly achieved consciousness."

Danse's face darkened slightly at that, but then he sighed deeply; "I really wish I could argue this point, but you're both right, and persuasive as always. How the hell did you learn to argue like this?"

Nate closed his eyes and smiled sadly; "My wife… She was a lawyer, and even before she got her law degree, brother… could she fucking argue a point!"

The two soldier's looked at one another for a moment, then shared a good natured laugh.

"So tell me," Danse asked as he accepted the offered cigarette and a light from Nate, who then lit his own smoke, "What is this newest salvage project you have Brandis working on?"

Nate took a long drag, then blew the smoke up into the air above them; "With all of the military checkpoints picked clean of supplies and small arms, I got to thinking that we could spare a lot of our FC's by not having to walk our limited Power Armor everywhere, and given our own limited airlift capacity, ground transport is the only other option, but taking Brahmin near a combat zone is both stupid and expensive, so I figured, why not start salvaging the ACP's?"

"How would you get them to run? The Static Fusion Plant's are all fried from the EMP effects from the atom bombs of the Great War."

"Well, interestingly enough, a Trader from out west had some schematics with him he couldn't make heads or tails of, but Sturgis said they looked like a power conversion system. I got them back to the Institute and they about had kittens over it. Turns out the plans allow you to take distilled bio fuel, and run them through half used power cells, and burn them in the SF plants almost like a fossil fuel engine."

Danse blinked rapidly at that and shook his head; "Nate that's how you do it! That's how you get Maxson to agree to damn near anything! Offer him a copy of the plans as part of your request and he'll give you anything short of Liberty Prime and the Prydwen!"

Nate leaned back, his smoke dangling from his lips as he considered that, then smiled lazily, and laugh building in his chest, as he nodded, the replied; "Well then Danse, congratulations on your soon to be announced promotion!"

* * *

**A/N: The personal Drama has escalated wildly out of control but will soon be over... Even so, apologies for taking _SIX WHOLE MONTHS_ to update. My muse was murdered in it's sleep by a fellow writer I had grown very close to, who then betrayed me at the prompting of both her own hubris, another writer and a so called medical professional... I'll not say any more than any queries or comments in relationship to the story are welcome, as well as requests or prompts. No idea when I will update this next, but my other current Fic "Remnants of the Grid" set in a sort of crossover of the RWBY universe will likely be updated within this month, and this one likely some time afterwards.**


	5. Chapter 5

_**Diamond City Blues Part 1**_

"The first thing to take into account, is how much time has passed since the person went missing."

Cigarette smoke hung just below the ceiling of the slightly haphazard office, an open bottle of whiskey and two half full glasses between the two figures at the desk in the middle of the main space spoke of an unpleasant topic as confirmed by the almost dour statement. Softly glowing yellow eyes swept over the upset woman sitting across from the synthetic detective and his smoldering smoke, gripped between two dense foam fingers.

"It's only been two days, but surely you can find my boy, he's smart and tough but he's never been gone for so long without giving any reasons before." The woman, in her late thirties and with fading chestnut hair was not unattractive, and likely had been very pretty in her youth, but the hardships of the wasteland had of course, extracted their tolls and taxes upon her, as they did everyone.

"I'll be perfectly honest with you miss Lomax, the first twenty-four hours tend to be the most critical," he paused at the pained look on her face, and waved his hand dismissively at her; "Oh I'm not saying the worst has happened or that I can't find Jim for you at all, but as time passes, any clues will be harder to track down and connect together." Nick explained as he reached for his glass and took a drink, thankfully not spilling any thanks to the refurbishment he had recently undergone. With fresh new foam skin, a few replacement parts and an overall tune up, he was feeling better than he had in decades. As well he had better, given his recent appointment as the new Chief of Detectives for Diamond City's recently commissioned Police Force, led by equally brand new Chief of Police Danny Sullivan. All part of the new Mayor's reforms and expansion plan, the honorable Mayor Abbot having been elected by a landslide after McDonough's sudden passing due to natural causes. Or so it had been widely accepted.  
The truth was only slightly darker, and substantially more complicated.

"I understand Detective Valentine, but we're new here in Diamond City," she said, wringing her hands lightly, "and Jim's work scaving in the ruins between here and Goodneighbor ended two weeks ago. His job working on the security outposts outside the walls was meant to be safer, but no one saw him after his last shift." She took a sip of her own drink to calm her nerves, but it didn't seem to help. "His sister Susan and I have no one left in the whole world, and with my bad nerves, I can't keep any steady long job, and the first harvest isn't for another two months. I simply must find Jim!"

Nick leaned back and nodded. It was an all too common occurrence, the attrition of the Commonwealth might be on the downward trend, but it was still a far cry from civilized much outside of the major settlements, even with the heroic efforts of the New Boston Alliance of the Commonwealth government, and their chief tool for change, the stalwart, numerous and ever faithful Minutemen.

"I understand Miss Lomax, I'll have Sergeant Leery pass around the word, and I'll personally contact the Minutemen and have the word put out to keep an eye out for your son around the Boston Ruins." He looked over his notes, then stood, nodding; "For now, go home and try to relax, for all we know Jim could be walking into Diamond City as we speak, looking to go home and get a hot meal. Otherwise, if needs be, DCS will see you and your daughter have food and clean water."

"DCS?" Miss Lomax asked uncertainly.

"Diamond City Services," the Synth explained; "They oversee the Orphanage, the School and the food bank here. In the meantime for myself, I need to send off a few messages before I get my best detective out to question the work party, I personally will go to Goodneighbor and speak with Sheriff Fahrenheit, see if anyone there has seen him."

"Oh, I see." She stood as well and then reached out, shaking his hand; "Thank you very much Detective Valentine, you are so much more reassuring and kind than I expected."

Nick smirked lightly and tipped his hat; "I aim to please mam. Don't worry, I'll contact you as soon as I find something out, you have my word."

With the worried mother out of his office, Valentine checked his badge, a metal and plastic part produced by the Institute's advanced manufacturing facilities, and gun, a lovingly rebuilt and expertly finished Government Issue M1911 Mk70 Nate had gifted him after his appointment, before picking up his assigned radio and tucking it into a pocket of his not quite pristine trench coat, a gift from Piper for the same achievement, then walked out of his small office in the upper stands section next to the Mayor's Office in the old Press Box of the stadium.

"Betsy, see that Detective Gambol gets this file and follows up." He handed a thin folder with is notes and the simple paperwork that Miss Lomax had filled out when she first spoke to him.

"Okay Nick, got another missing person?" the plain raven haired girl replied as she took it and then wrote in clean clear script "Det. Gambol" across the bottom.

"Yeah, young man from the work crews," Nick replied as he lit a cigarette, then closed up his coat, smoke flowing from his nose as he spoke; "Family emigrated here from the wastes northwest of the Pitt this last spring, been gone a few days. I'm on my way to chat with Fahrenheit now, I should be back tonight, gonna run down the few leads I have, see what I can find, oh and let the Chief know I'll be having Gambol work this one with me."

"Gambol's still working the outer market theft's Nick." Betsy reminded him teasingly, her brown eyes showing the fatigue of a days' work.

"Oh, that will keep for the moment," he replied as he finished his smoke, then stubbed it out in the ashtray on her desk; "The beat cops can canvas the caravans for now. Anything comes up they can more than handle it, Gambol needs to get his feet wet on a real case, and this will do nicely. Tell him to question the work crews working on the upgrades for the security outposts, that's who saw the kid last, Jim Lomax is the name. "

Betsy nodded, scribbling down a few short notes and tucking them into the file; "Okay Nick, I'll pass it on, be careful out there."

"Aren't I always?"

"You say that, but I know from Ellie what all you got up to and into not too long ago."

"Heh, the tattletale." Nick grumbled as he waved over his shoulder and stepped out to the main lobby and the lift that led down to the ground access level.

Weaving his way through the record setting (for Diamond City at least) foot traffic near the main entrance, Nick spared a glance over the expanding buildings in the stands and the recently built up skyline in the center of the settlement. DC had easily doubled its live in population over the last year, the growing safety provided by the Minutemen helping protect both people and commerce to the extent that Feral Ghouls were a recent memory, and the threat of the Super Mutants was at its lowest since the bombs fell.

Ever since the establishment of the NBAC, and it's New Boston Project, starting with Lexington being resettled, the migration of wastelanders into the greater Commonwealth area around the Boston Ruins had been at never before thought possible levels. From the west, north and south they came, seeking the security, freedom and opportunity that was available now that the major factions had banded together, rather than glowered and scrapped with one another until someone pulled the trigger on a full on war.

Even so, traders and immigrants coming in, spoke of other factions, pockets of struggling civilization, growing as well, and sadly, not all of them were seemingly friendly to the infantile NBAC.

But that was something he was only aware of, and not directly involved in thankfully. He was just a police detective in only the largest single settlement in the Commonwealth. And right now, he was looking for a missing day laborer who was the only steady source of income for his small family. No small task given the geography of the area, but thankfully a far more hopeful one than it might have been in years past.

Stepping out of the main gates of Diamond City into the Fens, Nick nodded a greeting to the Security forces that patrolled the streets around old Fenway park, as he followed the now mostly cleared & cleaned, and significantly safer street towards Goodneighbor. With the growth of the last two years, Diamond City had both a police department, and a security force, one enforced the laws and kept the peace, the other stood in defense of the settlement and it's immediate holdings, one answered directly to the city council, and by extension, the citizens, the other to the mayor directly, and above all, one was wholly independent of all other established law enforcement agencies, and the other worked almost in lockstep with the Minutemen. It was a rather neat and tidy system that allowed the growing hub of civilization to thrive, and being one of the major linchpins to the Commonwealth's reborn economy meant there was thankfully no limit on growth at this stage, so long as people and caps kept passing through.

While whatever else Bunker Hill might claim, it was still the caravan hub of the territory, but the consumer base Diamond City now provided made that all worthwhile, and the Minutemen insured that the roads where as safe as could be. Between that and the manufacturing in Lexington, Sanctuary and Sagus Iron Works, and the dozens of farming settlements scattered like jacks along the roads and open spaces, it was little wonder the only other major economic force was the scavenger groups that had formed to help feed the young and growing beast that was the New Boston Alliance of the Commonwealth with all of the salvage it could manage.

Between the new constitution and government, with his recent appointment, as well as his own solid reputation, his own standing in the world had risen enough to notice the little things more. Prejudice was still a problem, but was reduced to a case by case basis, and given the work he had done before and after the founding of the NBAC, the encounters with bigots were growing fewer and farther in between, which suited him down to the ground. It also made his job, and his life, that much easier. The same could also be said for other nonhuman sentient's in the many vocations they found themselves in across the Commonwealth, and one such was the honorable Mayor Handcock of Goodneighbor.

While much smaller than Diamond City in both real-estate and population, there was still a need for a bit of civilization made up of people on the fringe of society. While it's exact economic impact was past the point of interest for Nick, he knew that between the Memory Den, Silver Shroud Radio and the Third Rail, it was easily still one of the major hubs in the NBAC for trade and not just of the monetary kind. Information and reputation could be just as valuable in the wastes, and if you wanted to establish a certain kind of rep, without running afoul of the Minutemen, Goodneighbor was just about the only place to do it. And if you wanted to find the same kind of information, or really any kind of information that was even halfway privileged or guarded, outside of trying (and certainly failing) to pump the Railroad and it's agents, the Third Rail was just about the last word, especially when you had Sherriff Fahrenheit asking on your behalf.

Unlike in years past, the walk from Diamond City to Goodneighbor, was safe, uneventful, quick and easy, with the clearing away of the debris and ruin from the streets, the salvage crews having cleared anything of value, and then everything else over the last summer, actual signs, rough hewn as they might have been, had replaced the splashes of paint and vague scratches on the walls, directing traffic between the two settlements, traders, citizens leisurely making their way was an almost alien sight compared to how it had been for so very long, and Nick was glad for it, the change signaling progress forward from the squalor and uncertainty the bombs had left behind, to rebirth and hope, something that while still in short supply, was growing every day it now seemed.

Entering Goodneighbor, Nick made for the center of power, the Old Statehouse, and from there, he let himself into a side door, and walked up the stairs towards mayor Handcock's office, knowing that if Sherriff Fahrenheit wasn't there, someone inside would know where, not that Goodneighbor was all that big, but with the recent growth of the Commonwealth, and the countless new shacks he'd seen just at the entrance, the settlement was all but bursting at the seams, and locating the elected law woman would be a challenge in the densely packed population center.

"Nicky, that you?" a gravelly low tenor inquired when the old Synth paused to knock at the door.

"It's me, your dishonorable honor, how's the life of the second most popular politician in the Commonwealth?" Nick replied, a smirk on his lips as he stepped through the half open door.

"Second? Second to who exactly? That clown Abbot?" the smarmy young ghoul smiled widely as he stood up from behind his freshly repainted desk, and offered the detective a seat with a wave of his wrinkled hand.

"Easy Handcock, you already have my vote, and it ain't an election year for another two summers yet." Nick nodded as he took off his hat and sat in a worn but sturdy lounger across from the large, red white and blue painted desk the mayor stood behind.

"Maybe not for the NBAC Congress, but it is for Goodneighbor."

The fact that formal elections had only recently been enacted in the settlement was a point of exasperation for the rest of the New Boston Alliance of the Commonwealth, which had started having elections nearly two years ago after the reaffirmation of the original cease fire and peace treaty that had brought most of the major factions together under the banner of the Minutemen and a simplified recounting of the old US Constitution. But given that traditionally the mayor of Goodneighbor was usually just whomever the citizens of the settlement thought could get things done, or hated less, or in Handcock's case liked the most, no formal voting was ever actually done, unlike in Diamond City, which had been the only officially functioning representative democracy for some time. Outside of the almost mob rule of Goodneighbor's much more brutal and direct form of democracy at least.

"Be that as it may," Valentine chuckled, "I'm not here for a personal visit, but official work."

Handcock grunted as he sat back down, "That so? Should I send for Fahrenheit?" he asked as he kicked a foot up onto the top of his desk.

"Yeah, I do wanna talk to the Sherriff soon as is convenient," the detective replied as he lit a cigarette, "but I hope you might help me as well?"

"Maybe." The Mayor replied as he lit his own smoke, a large Cigar, Nick was sure was made with more than just tobacco; "Maybe I can, depending on what it is, remember my adventuring days are behind me now since the last Mutie attack." The ghoul lifted his other leg up, and the boot clad wooden foot "thunk'ed" against the desk, a hint of the carved limb peaking over the top of the boot and under the ragged trouser.

"Naw, nothing like that old friend," the Synth replied before he took another long drag, then exhaled, the smoke billowing up towards the ceiling, "I got a missing immigrant worker, a young man from the DC work crews named Jim Lomax, early twenties, kinda tall, wiry, reddish brown hair, missing his left pinky according to his mother."

Handcock sat upright at that, and let out his own cloud of smoke; "Hmm, the description is lost on me, but I know I've heard the name recently… Yeah, I remember, just yesterday I got a complaint from the Third Rail about a guy named Lomax getting into a fight at the bar, he didn't start it, but he sure as hell ended it when he knocked out the front teeth of a roaming junk trader. Soon as the Neighborhood Watch showed up, he tossed a dozen caps at them, and just left."

"He bribed the guards?" Valentine asked in disbelief.

"Ha, naw Nicky," the Mayor replied, holding back a belly laugh; "twelve caps is the fine for brawling in the Rail now. New policy in Goodneighbor is that business owners can set the fine for disturbing the peace in their establishment, so long as it is no less than five, and no more than fifty, so as not to give anyone a means to fuck someone else over indirectly after bustin' their chops. Doin' so in the common areas is a flat ten cap fine, if no one is really hurt, or then it's the going price of a stimpack on top of the ten caps."

"How progressive and reasonable for you." Nick replied dryly.

"It helps with all the new blood in town, that and it supplements our meager income, since we have the lowest tax rates in all of NBAC."

"Beats stabbing them in the street I guess."

"Oh that's still an option, just no one has bothered to really piss anyone off like that in a long time."

"I wonder why?"

Handcock laughed raucously as Fahrenheit herself entered the room.

"What's so funny?" she asked as she strode in and grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge, and cracked it open.

"Nicky and his bone dry wit, what else?" the Ghoul quipped before tamping out the stub of his cigar, then kicking his feet back up and grinning widely; "You recall that guy Jim Lomax?"

The Sherriff scowled as she swallowed another mouthful of her beer; "That scraper who punched a junk dealer in the Rail yesterday?"

"Yeah, Detective Valentine says he's missing from the DC work crews or something, mommy dearest is looking for him."

"That so?" the law woman asked as she rubbed her thumb across the mouth of her drink absently.

"I came straight over to ask if you'd seen him around Fahrenheit," Nick replied, "he's a tall and wiry guy about twenty or so, red brown hair, missing his left pinky."

"Yeah," the Sherriff sighed; "That's the guy, he set out into the Boston ruins after paying the fine. Poor Junk dealer lost three teeth from that punch, but I think he blackened the kids eye well enough, whole side of his face was red when he stormed out of the Rail. Damn near ran me over as he left."

"Did anyone see which way he went?" the Detective asked as he turned his hat over in his hands; "He didn't return to DC, hence why his mother filed the report."

"The Commons according to Jackie, she was on gate duty at the time, I talked to her after I found out he'd been in the fight in the Rail, and asked about it, but since he left Goodneighbor, I've not bothered with it, he paid the fine and left, which is ideal for us."

"Hmm. I see." Nick replied before standing up and placing his hat back on his head; "Well then I know where I'm heading next, after I stop by the Minutemen posting that is, gonna send the word out to the troopers, see if I can't get some extra eyes looking the ruins for me."

"I'll pass that on for ya' Nicky, personally." Handcock said as he swept his feet back down and stood as well.

"Thanks Handcock, any time I can save running him down makes my job easier, or at least it should."

"Well, since you'll be running around outside your jurisdiction, it won't hurt much either." Fahrenheit said as she sat down on the couch and then knocked back the last of her beer.

"Until the NBAC Congress is formally elected, convenes, and passes such legislation as to officially limit each settlement's law enforcement, such as they are now, I'll just work like I always have, no one's complained about it much so far." Nick replied with a grin and a wave; "Thanks for the help, I'll circle back around on a day off some time and we'll catch up for real."

"It's a date, and good luck Nick." Handcock said as he took up his own hat and waved the Synthetic detective off.

"Hey now, don't spoil a good thing, if it wasn't for bad luck, I'd not have any."

Upon arriving at the Minutemen led NBAC outpost at Boston Commons, Valentine made contact with the post Captain, a grizzled faced middle aged man named Sean Hunting, a veteran of the Gunner campaign and a builder of some reputation from before the resurgence of the Minutemen. Given the current project reclaiming, clearing, rebuilding and defending the area, he was ideal for the job, as one of the founding members and commanding officers of the ever popular "Worker Bees" 9th Battalion.

"With all of the new workers pouring into this part of Old Boston, odds are he's here and hooked up with one of the independent contractor crews we have clearing up the north end of the Commons, or even clearing the pond up," the Captain was pursuing a battered clipboard, the stub of a salvaged pencil gripped firmly in his hand as he scrawled a short note down, "But that there is the problem, I do good to keep track of the MM personnel that rotate through, the civvy contractors all keep their own tabs on who they have working for them, and they only report to me for project plans and progress reports."

"I understand Captain," Nick replied, as he took out another cigarette, then offered one to the Officer when he indicated a request to share, "help yourself."

"Thanks, smokes are about the only thing I can't seem to get in our weekly supply drops."

"Who might I talk to that might know how to track him down?" Nick asked as the Minuteman ignited the aged tobacco with a lit lantern from his work table.

Hunting took a long drag and sighed out the smoke as he looked up at the tarp cover roof of the shack they stood in; "Well we have four contracted outfits here, all unionized, so independent workers gotta sign up to get any work here, since the General is pouring his own funds into this project, the caps are flowing freely, but managed tightly, the contractors are a might touchy about someone just coming in and scalping pay from under them. I'd start with the Good Luck crew, run by Don Luckadew, or Lucky as his people call him. He runs the biggest outfit on the Commons Project, after the Minutemen of course."

"Lucky?"

"Guy specializes in ruins exploration, salvage and demolitions, he's missing a few fingers and toes, and his right ear. A few too many close calls with ferial ghouls and explosives, or so he claims."

"I see." Nick said neutrally, his amusement well hidden at the observation. "Lomax is a scrapper by trade, any of your crews specialize in that?"

"Yeah," the Captain replied, as he flicked away some ash from his smoke; "That would be either the Tincan Tom crew or Sam's Salvage Hounds. Hank Lorenzo is the foreman for the TT outfit, and Samantha leads the Hounds."

"Samantha have a last name?"

"Nope, at least none she can remember, she's a kid from the wastes west of here, from a village called Ox Cart, someplace near the ruins of old Oxford or something."

"That's a decent walk from here." Nick observed drily.

"I wouldn't know myself, but she can strip a prewar car in an hour or transform a Red Rocket into a fortress in a week or less, we had her on the Red Rocket outpost in Southie this spring, got it stripped down and built back up in half the time we had figured, and mostly by herself."

"Ya don't say?" Nick knew of the outpost, near the National Guard supply station south of Old Boston proper, he'd used the Red Rocket as a hideaway more than once in the days before General Reynolds had come along and breathed new life into the Minutemen. While the building itself was solid, everything else about it had been little more than debris and ruin.

"She's a firecracker and a half that one, hard as nails but surprisingly friendly, in every way of the word, if you catch my meaning." The Captain tilted his head and rolled his eyes once, and Nick instantly knew what he meant by that.

"I see, so where might I find Samantha and Lucky?"

"Lucky's shack is the closest, right next to the subway entrance, Sam's tent is set up over on the south end of the pond, across from the little diner we just finished building outta the old newsstand. This time of day Lucky will be in the Subway tunnels, but Sam should be talking off for lunch any time now."

Valentine grunted at that, nodding as he turned towards the shack door; "Thanks for the help Captain Hunting, I'd expect word to reach you soon enough via the radio about Lomax, I've asked for the Troopers to keep an eye out, I'd wager the next patrol that swings by might have something more official, in the mean time you can send word to me through Diamond City's hub, I check in at least twice a day with DCPD."

"I'll keep that in mind detective, sorry I couldn't be of more help." The Captain offered as he went back to his paperwork.

Striding across the recently cleared street, Nick made for the small diner, the sounds and scent of a grill going full song on some fresh Brahmin meat was as good a beacon as the small line of dirty and rough looking patrons he observed standing to one side, a pair of salvaged picnic tables, and some more rough and improvised settings made from recovered furnishings and crates where almost full of workers, digging into the simple wasteland fare.

A rough but attractive dishwater blonde in tattered coveralls, and a thinly worn hide shirt two sizes too small for any modesty, all covered in dust and grime, head to boot lounged in the bed of a half stripped down truck just beyond that, an open beer bottle, and an empty hubcap plate sat between her outstretched legs, and road beaten sneaker clad feet, a screwdriver twirling in her fingers as her dark green eyes stared off into space.

Noticing a simple but extensive tattoo along the inside of her arm, he looked closer, and noticed the hidden scar tissue of a square shaped brand, covered by the zigzag lines of black and blue ink that traced up from her wrist and faced out someplace near her armpit, and the small but wide bust line that was barely covered by her shirt.

"Samantha?" he asked as he paused next to her, her gaze shifting at his arrival, washing over him in a lazy, almost hungry look that turned to puzzlement when she noticed his face and eyes.

"Yeah? You one o' them synths' I hear tell about?"

"Yeah, one of them if nothing else," Nick smirked before extending his hand in greeting; "I'm Detective Nick Valentine, Diamond City Police, I was hoping to ask you a few questions."

Samantha eyed his hand for a moment then shrugged, dropping the tool from one hand to the other before leaning over and giving his imitation hand a single, strong shake; "Eh, law man huh? My uncle was a law man back home, right up until it killed him."

Nick noticed that she was missing the bottom half of her upper right canine, broken off at a sharp angle, likely from some adolescent scrap, or possibly a more recent fight for her survival or dignity, but instead kept on task as he replied; "Your uncle ever go after missing folks in his work?"

"Sometimes," she replied curtly, before spitting back over her shoulder, then looking back at him, her dark green eyes seemed to be taking him apart, as if looking for what made him tick, yet there was no malice, just honest curiosity; "You lookin for someone I take it?"

"Got it in one," Nick said with a soft laugh, taking note of how sharp she was: "Smart gal like you must be making decent caps doing this work, if your reputation is as valid as some think it to be."

"Last I bothered to check it was." She sat more upright at that, and adjusted a fraying strap on her coveralls, pushing it back up to the middle of her sun kissed shoulder.

"Hmm, take on any new scrappers last day or two?" Nick asked as he looked back at the diner, and the dance like rotation the other workers were taking, swapping out spots at the tables.

"No, not that I've lacked in applicants, but I only hire people I need, talent wise, I try to keep it lean and quick and sweet, like me." She smirked as she shifted her hips slightly, and drew up a leg under her.

"I see, so the name Jim Lomax wouldn't ring any bells?" Nick asked, ever the consummate professional.

Samantha furrowed her brow as her head tilted, her expression confused as she responded; "Jimmy? Since when did he go missing?"

Nick locked his gaze onto her face, and read her more closely.

She was as confused as he was now.

"Jim Lomax was working with the DC crews out in the Fens until two days ago, his mother came to the police and filed a missing persons report because he hadn't returned to their apartment there." He watched her confusion grow into alarm as she suddenly stood up, hopping out of the back of the truck to stand next to him, her short, lean stature did not manage to lesion the intensity of her gaze.

"Jimmy was here just last night," she stated matter-of-factly; "gave me a good tumble in my tent, after he dropped me some hand tools I had lent him the day before. But he never mentioned he had a ma back in Diamond City."

Nick hummed at that then pulled out a notebook and scrawled down a quick note for later.

"Did you happen to see which way he went, after he uhh... Returned your favor?"

Samantha barked out a sharp laugh and ran a hand through her messy, shoulder length hair; "Law man, by the time he left I was eating my pillow and dreaming of him mounting me again. When I got up at sunrise, he was long gone, no note, no memento other than his leftovers crusting my thigh and some bruises on my hips."

"I see."

"What, ya wanna?"

"No!" Nick startled out before waving his hand, then adjusting his hat; "What I meant is I understand. Do you have any ideas on where he might be heading next?"

Samantha shrugged, her smirk fading as she sighed; "Sorry Law man, I'd come across Jimmy during a supply run to DC about a month back, thought he was cute, found out he was a decent scrapper, did a little trading, teased him a bit, then lit out here."

"And then?" Nick urged her on.

"I was happy as raider in a brothel when he happened by the other day, moreso the night he came back," Samantha smirked at that, "but all I could tell you is that he's heading north for some high end salvage job. He wouldn't share anything other than it was gonna set him for the next year or two, and he was gonna buy himself a nice place to start up a trading post out near that settlement at the lighthouse. I wish him well, but if something's gone crossways with him… Well, he was a decent scrapper, and a better hump."

"Hmm… Any ideas on what or where he might have found that kinda salvage?"

Samantha spread her arms out, palms up as she replied; "Who knows, there are a few old world buildings out there no one has really bothered to dig into yet, what with all the work in Boston proper now, but I'd wager one of the old factories might have some pricey junk folks are starting to pay big caps for now that industry is becoming viable again."

Logical as that was, Nick had the sinking suspicion that it was not going to be that simple, once he managed to pin Lomax down…

* * *

_**A/N: Here it is, and yes, there is a part 2 pending, I've already started it, and am working the following chapter to THAT as well, but can make zero promises as to when they will drop, as 'Remnants of the Grid' is currently my main fanfic I'm working on right now, as well as in the planning stages of an original story.**_

_**In reply to Cooldude's thought about Sergeant Michael Daly as heard on the holotape that is with the very first T-45 power armour found early on in the game: That is actually an idea I had played with when I started this, however there is zero known lore (known to me at least) about him surviving after the war, as a ghoul or otherwise, and as covered in the first 2 entries, Nate already knows how to use PA, and has taught Preston and others how to use it, which is the common Fan's headcannon for this strange oversight.  
One of the things that most FO fans were aggravated with was the lack of in game explanation for why you (and everyone else it seems) can just use Power Armor, when in EVERY SINGLE OTHER PREVIOUS GAME, it is a skill you must learn/earn either from the BoS or the Enclave respectively, as they are the only two factions with any history with it. While I do like the idea in FO:NV where the NCR uses unpowered versions, and find the idea of raiders cobbling together their own makeshift versions, the former makes sense given the history of the NCR army and the west coast BoS, but latter only works as an idea, if you add in that cobbled together raider PA is likely much slower, less reliable, and less efficient than pretty much any pre or post war system the Enclave or Brotherhood would have, but Bethesda being Bethesda, didn't want to delay the game by having two wholly different systems/game code for the same basic game mechanic, which is make something that effectively doubles your ability to soak up damage. As much fun as fully upgrading and kiting out a set of PA is (I am personally partial to the T51 variants myself) the fact that you are never more than 2 or 3 times as tough (where as in FO3 or FO:NV you could effectively be nearly 10 times as durable) as anything else, is a bit of a let down. You are less a walking tank, and more of a massive pain in the Hostile NPC's asses.**_

_**Which is fun, but still... This is what mods are for!**_

_**But anyway Cooldue, I do have something else in the works in that vein, but it is much further down the road at this point.**_


	6. Chapter 6

_Notes at the end of the chapter, meantime, enjoy!_

* * *

_**Diamond City Blues Part 2**_

"I was happy as raider in a brothel when he happened by the other day, moreso the night he came back," Samantha smirked at that, "but all I could tell you is that he's heading north for some high end salvage job. He wouldn't share anything other than it was gonna set him for the next year or two, and he was gonna buy himself a nice place to start up a trading post out near that settlement at the lighthouse. I wish him well, but if something's gone crossways with him… Well, he was a decent scrapper, and a better hump."

"Hmm… Any ideas on what or where he might have found that kinda salvage?"

Samantha spread her arms out, palms up as she replied; "Who knows, there are a few old world buildings out there no one has really bothered to dig into yet, what with all the work in Boston proper now, but I'd wager one of the old factories might have some pricey junk folks are starting to pay big caps for now that industry is becoming viable again."

Logical as that was, Nick had the sinking suspicion that it was not going to be that simple, once he managed to pin young Lomax down…

After saying his goodbyes to Samantha, Nick doubled back to Diamond City quick as his recently rebuilt legs could carry him. For not the first time, he vaguely wished he had taken Nate up on the offered Institute upgrades, rather than just having his chassis rebuilt to the model two standard he and Dima had been the templates for so many forgotten years ago, but then reminded himself how it just didn't seem right, nor low risk to yank his mind out and stuff it into one of the mark three, gen two frames, much less take the risk of stuffing himself into a gen three platform, and all of the untold complications _that_ would surely have brought about.

It was sunset by the time he had returned to his desk, a note from Gambol stating that he would be ready to go bright and early at sun up, waiting at the Dugout after breakfast with a freshly scavenged pack of smokes, if it was so needed. The guy was smart, cool headed, if somewhat of a blunt instrument, but utterly reliable and had a knack for the slog of old fashioned police work, something most of the DCPD was only now starting to get the hang of. Nick was sure he would have need of the weathered old guard turned cop by the time this case had ended.

Adding a quickly written copy of his notes from the day to the file, and reviewing Gambol's notes from questioning the DC work crews, he then left for his home, waving to the night Sergeant as he took the lift down, and walked the now empting streets to his old office and room.

Hanging his hat and coat up on the beat up old rack inside the door, Nick walked leisurely around and up the small staircase to his private room, a simple, cluttered space with a derelict old bed, and a few personal items scattered about on top of nearly ancient boxes, packed with old case files, notes, and junk people had used as payment for his services over the many years he had spent as the Commonwealths lone professional detective.

While as a Synth, he had no real requirement for sleep, the down time allowed his old proprietary circuits and his bodily systems, both new and old alike, to restore, repair, and compile his new memories with the old, his ever evolving awareness and personality solidifying itself further.

He never dreamed, but the memories and patterns of the old Nicholas Valentine, Detective of the old Boston Police, would sometimes play out, the parallels his past life's cases to his new life's work, always seemed to bring a new clue out. On the newer cases at least, the old ones… they were long gone, dead and buried or burned away, all of them. Nothing more than a road map or cheat sheet he used now. Even so, there was a sort of misplaced comfort in the routine, the familiar ritual allowing him to cling to whatever humanity had survived all these years, even if it was more memory than fact.

The next day started just before the sun peeked over the top of Diamond City's walls, the tops of the dilapidated skyscrapers surrounding the city already awash and reflecting beams of sunlight down to the ground below, the sounds of the early risers and late workers in the streets greeted him as he stepped out into the boarded walk between second and third, and headed for the Dugout to meet Gambol.

Upon entering the Dugout, Nick instantly took in the room, as was his habit, and nodded to Gambol, who waved him over to his place at the bar. Sitting down next to the other DCPD officer, Valentine appraised the other Detective (and wasn't that a nice change?) as he finished off his hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, fresh bread and fried thin strips of Radstag bacon.

"Mornin' boss," Gambol's smooth tenor sounded before he took a long drink from an ice cold Nuka Cherry to wash down the last of his breakfast with; "I talked to the work crews like you asked, and just like your notes in the file say about his mama', none of them have seen the guy in two, now three days."

Nick hummed then pulled out a worn and weathered old road map he'd picked up from a Red Rocket decades ago, unfolded it part way, then laid it down between them on the bar; "Thankfully I picked up the trail in Goodneighbor and it led me to the Commons reconstruction project, I got a lead, thin, but clear, Jim's headed out towards Kings Port area, up along the north coast in Salem."

The old map had been edited with both pencil and pen, red and blue ink noting different places and crossing out old world locations that no longer existed, and filling in new places that had grown up since the bombs fell and the over two-hundred year old map became all but useless.

"A Scrapper I talked too who had a, uh well a sort of relationship with our missing person, said he was heading that way, something about a big salvage job, maybe in one of the old warehouses or factories that hasn't been totally stripped," Nicked offered, then added, " at least that is what she thought."

Gambol downed the last of his Nuka, then frowned; "Something tells me you're not convinced. Why not?"

Nick held a half smile, as he lit a smoke up, and offered one to Gambol, who took the offered cigarette, then held up a surprisingly fresh pack in trade.

"Pickings have always been thin up there unless you're honestly fishing, or looking for trouble in Salem proper, and the only factory left standing is an old packing plant that shut down just weeks before the bombs fell," Nick took another drag of his smoke, the automatic urge, and honestly nervous habit had always vexed him, tobacco was wasted on his synthetic being, but he could just never shake the habit, as it had been hard wired in from the brain patterns of the original Valentine his coding had been built from, "but there has always been rumors, they never agree on anything but one minor detail, a hidden pre-war stash of some kind, lost when the bombs fell, worth a king's ransom, and no one has ever found it, yet the murmuring persists even now."

"Never heard of it," Gambol replied with a shrug, his own smoke glowing dimly as he exhaled; "It some kinda scrapper's tale?"

Nick nodded; "Remember, even with everything slowly going to hell, construction was a constant, fix an old road, build new houses, quarry some stone, harvest some trees, the old world was big on consumption, and it took it to excess, hence why it went up in atomic flames." He let out a long plume of smoke then added: "Run outta stuff, all that's left are people."

"That's dark boss, but also true I guess." Gambol answered, then shrugged as he looked around the room once; "Only we're too stubborn to die huh?"

"More often that not." Nick replied with a nod.

"So then we head up the coast and try to hunt him down before he gets killed by feral's right?" the short, broad, and tan skinned Detective asked as he tossed a few caps onto the counter.

"Yeah, only I got a couple of ideas where we should start."

"It's your play boss, I'm just along to learn, and keep you from getting turned into salvage yourself."

The recent founding of a sort of taxi or bus service was just another indication of the prosperity that safety brought, the team of Brahmin pulled a large wagon, built from a salvaged city bus frame that had been mostly rebuilt from any number of the abandoned wrecks that littered the commonwealth, along the freshly cleared, and partially repaired roads north from Diamond City, towards the military settlement of Kings Port Lighthouse, one of two such coastal spots claimed by the small but growing Minutemen Navy, which was honestly more of a tiny Coast Guard at this stage, but Nick had seen the plans Zao and Nate had cooked up, and he knew it would just be a matter of time before ships could safely navigate the coastline and rivers and that would just be more fuel for the fire of the burgeoning economy that the NBAC was franticly trying to grow. And goodness was it frantic, if the price he and Gambol had paid for their ride was any indication. Sixty caps apiece was no mean amount, but it was marginally faster than walking, since Gambol could scarcely run for as long or as fast as Nick could.

"I'm glad we got a receipt for this," Gambol sighed as he played with an unlit smoke, and watched the landscape pass by the half of a window his battered seat was next to; "Otherwise I'd be out a weeks worth of food."

"Stub." Nick answered as he reloaded one of his spare mags then slid it back into the pouch on his shoulder holster under his trench coat, "It's called a ticket stub. And don't expect to get a full reimbursement, on it either, at least not from the department, Abbot's tightening down on the budget already, after that crate of pistols and ammo he bought, and the recent surge in immigrants' needing the help of DCS until they find work."

"Shit boss," Gambol snorted before finally lighting his cigarette, "that's the one thing there's plenty of right now, even if it's not big bags o' caps worth, most of the cleaning and salvage crews still pull half again to twice more then we do."

Nick nodded, "Yeah, but then again, everything but water and mutfruit is getting more pricey, not enough decent dwellings built up for the population surge, and the NBAC council is clamping down on weapons and ammo sales to supply the Minutemen."

"Why is that, ya think?"

Nick grunted as he leaned back and linked his hands behind his head: "Why else? War's commin, Nate can smell it, but with who or from where, no one seems to know, or if they do, they aren't telling anyone."

Gambol took in a chest full of smoke and then let it out slowly from his nose as he spoke; "Traders from the west are talking about four or five big groups fightin' it out from old California all the way to Old Ohio and all points in-between, some of them even say at least two of them are linked to the Brotherhood. Might be bad news if it's true."

"Big if," Nick said ironically, "but I'd have never thought it possible the Brotherhood would relax some of their more extreme views on things, yet if Nate and Danse are to be believed, Maxson is in the process of trying to wrangle all of the Brotherhood of Steel chapters into line with his efforts here on the east coast. From the Capitol Wastes in Columbia to the Southeastern Commonwealth territories and the ruins of Charlotte, all but The Pitt swear fealty to the Brotherhood, which according to the New Boston Commonwealth Accords means they are in a roundabout way, entitled to aid from the Minutemen."

"For what good it does us." Gambol observed dryly; "You really think the General has that kind of sway over Elder Maxson?"

"Directly? Maybe, but indirectly thanks to Danse, Haylin and his own war records? Well you've seen the efforts both the Brotherhood and the Minutemen have made in establishing a safe trade route between here and the Capitol Wastes. And the word is spreading fast as Brahmin can carry junk."

"So you think one of these other factions might have caught wind of what's going on here, with the NBAC, and is coming to try and take over?"

"As Nate once told me, one dark and stormy night just before he made a choice that led to the now famous meeting of minds at the Castle that set this all in motion over two years ago; 'War, war never changes, But as people, the reasons we fight, should, can and do, they change based on the roads we walk down, from the choices we make, and by how far we are willing to go to see things to the end, whatever that may be.' And he is absolutely right. Given human history, I'd say that we are fast becoming a tempting target for anyone struggling to carve out a reasonable existence from what's left of the world, greed always seems to muddle our thinking if we don't keep ourselves honest in the end."

"So then the General is trying to build up NBAC, namely the Minutemen, to the point we can fight em' off?" Gambol sucked down the last of his smoke, then flicked the stub out onto the road below; "Gutsy, ballsy really. But I'm not sure I like it."

"Like it or not, there is nothing you or I can do about it, unlike one Jim Lomax. We're almost there, so let's get back to our jobs, and let the fate of the world wait a little bit longer shall we?"

"Guess we don't get paid for talkin politics like Abbot huh?"

"You get paid?" Nick chuckled as the large bus turned wagon slowed near a lightly rebuilt bus station within sight of the Lighthouse.

Once at the settlement, Nick sent Gambol straight to the small trading post, while he went to the Sherriff's office, where he was pleasantly surprised to run into a Minuteman Trooper, the closest thing to a state police force the NBAC could manage. Formed from the humans of the MP corps, Troopers where tough, smart, and well trained in tracking, survival and law enforcement, each was commissioned from the MP corps directly by the Council, but only after recommendation by at least two of the highest ranking officers in the Minutemen command structure to complete twelve weeks of education and brutal conditioning all courtesy of the advanced resources of the Institute, who then supplied them with a refurbished hat, not unlike the sort worn by pre-war police, but much less shiny, as well as the most advanced light armors this side of the Mississippi, a sturdy camping pack, and a two full boxes of fresh ammo for their preferred weapons, a sidearm, and a primary. This Trooper was outfitted with a rough and cloth wrapped M1A1 and a matching Browning 9mm, the sewn on badge of his chest plate had his name under the musket framed star and stripe shield of the Troopers, and the name was Waldon, an old friend.

"Jake? Jake Waldon?"

"Nick? Hey Nick! How the hell are you?"

"Still a walking hunk of metal and foam, tracking down strays, I didn't know you where in North Division now?"

Waldon laughed and clapped the old Detective on the shoulder like he was a long lost uncle, his smile wide; "Just following your example I guess, I got moved to North after we cleared the roads south of Fort Murkwater with Second Battalion and established a border shack with the Brotherhood. Now I'm just doing patrols and enforcement, waving the flag and helping out when needed."

"You helped established the southern border?" Nick asked surprised, his eyebrows, such as they where, arched slightly.

"Mostly helped make sure the radios and signal systems got put in the right places and tested them till I could do it in my sleep. Second Battalion is actually working with the Bee's Seventh Battalion on that, putting up fences, watch towers, building up a decent fort and way station for the Caravans." Waldon shrugged, then nodded to Gambol as he kept talking; "I see you got some help today, working a case?"

"Yeah," Nick said then gestured for them to walk away from the bus station and towards the Trooper Station; "you should have gotten an alert about a missing person from Goodneighbor about a missing migrant outta DC yesterday, Jim Lomax."

"Oh, you're the one who sent it huh?" the Trooper said as he nodded in understanding; "Yeah I saw the post on the alert board this morning, I had yesterday off, and I slept for most of it, we've been helping the Army with the civilian authority's efforts to enhance our lookout capabilities, at least until the Navy can get a ship out here on a more permanent basis."

"More sea raiders?" Gambol asked incredulously.

"Naw, nothing like that." Waldon said with a laugh, "Ocean life off the coast has recently gotten kinda hostile, and the fishing has slowed down, Gulpers moving down the coast from Far Harbour it seems, no one's been hurt, but a few boats have been damaged, and that means the sea trade for this settlement is down, not that the Caravaner's are complaining."

"Waldon, about Lomax," Nick re-centered the dialogue as he offered the Trooper a smoke, then a light.

"Right, Lomax, well no one here has seen him," Jake said before puffing a bit more of his smoke, then explaining further, "but we did spot a small camp about a mile northwest of here towards Salem, one maybe two people tops, stuck out because its unusual for folks to come out this way and not stop here at the Lighthouse. That was two nights ago, haven't seen anything else since, but yesterday there was some kind of fight from that direction, could just barely make out gunshots around noon, sounded like an automatic pistol or SMG, and maybe a shotgun, but since there are still some deathclaws that come in from the west up there, we don't mess with it much."

Nick hummed at that in reply; "Yeahh, and the area is lousy with molerats too."

Gambol spoke up then; "Know of any salvage operations going on in the area?"

The Trooper shook his head; "Nothing major on this side of the bay, some scavers go out and find something left over every now and again, but beyond that, we don't range too far north right now. Overland at least."

"Hmm, can you give us an idea how to get to that camp?"

"Sure," Waldon said as he pointed to a crudely updated map, not unlike Nick's own, "Follow the road north to the first bend, then bear left towards the Salem Museum, it was about half way between here and there, just be careful, the General has said not to head that way, a small but nasty pack of Deathclaws are known to roam around there hunting Radstag and anything else stupid enough to get caught out in the open there."

"You'd think," Gambol said as he and Nick waved at the Trooper as they left; "with the establishment of the Troopers, and all the manpower the Minutemen have been throwing around, that Salem would be a prime place to establish a better foothold."

"Maybe so, but that would mean clearing out Deathclaws and such, and honestly other than Far Harbour and Canada," Nick said as he unbuttoned his top coat, "there isn't much left aside from tiny settlements and the wasteland, but if someone wanted to come in from that direction, they'd have to deal with it. It actually makes sense with the possible threats to the west and south, and a whole lot of nothing to the north."

"And in the meantime, you and I get to go into a hazard zone all by ourselves."

"What, you forget your gun?"

Gambol barked out a laugh as he pulled his own coat open, revealing a recently cleaned and serviced N85, the slightly sleeker and far more abundant civilian version of the N99, both staples of the wasteland that spat out dosages of death in the 10 millimeter range. But Gambol also had a weathered sawed off shotgun hanging from a short leather string looped around his shoulder holster, and a bandoleer of shells and spare mags where a belt would normally be.

"Paranoid are we?" Nick asked as he patted the 1911 under his arm.

"Only when I'm more than sprinting distance from civilization."

"Smarter than I was once upon a time." Nick replied as he opened the strong side of his trench coat and showed off a Minutemen styled M3 "grease gun" with the Diamond City Police logo painted on it.

"Suppressed? I like it."

"Makes it easier getting that critical first shot off undetected, but it gets a little hard to hold down once it starts running."

"Hopefully we won't need either of them." Gambol said as they started walking towards the area the camp had been seen at, the mid day sun bright, and the sky clear of most clouds in what was looking to be a rather nice day, rate as it was in the wasteland.

"Hope is all well and good," Nick intoned as they followed the road north, "but experience tells me it's better to be safe than sorry."

Gambol nodded at that, as they approached the bend in the road that went right and towards the coast, and they moved left towards the old museum of Witchcraft that was more or less the center of what was left of Salem.

A short time later, Valentine and Gambol were searching the remains of a poorly built camp, a now dead fire, some recently empted cans of beans, and a mauled box of Sugar Bombs littered the site, as did the rusting and twisted remains of an old revolver, little more than a bent gun barrel and broken trigger assembly. It did little to ease their minds or tell them anything much of value.

"No more than a day or two old," Nick explained calmly, "the wood stills smells like smoke, and there are some fresh tool marks on that old J-frame where the hammer and cylinder where pulled off, and look there, the wooden grips were tossed in the fire."

"Scraped it for bits you think?" Gambol asked as he turned the remains of the old .44 caliber revolver over in his hand.

"Maybe, but I wonder why it looks like it was hit right there where the barrel meets the top of the frame…"

"Huh," Gambol replied as he looked closer then frowned; "Looks uneven, and there's some rock dust, granite if I had to guess from the color of it, Quartz would be a bit darker, at least from around here."

"So smacked with a rock, or maybe on a block from a quarry?"

"Possible." Gambol hummed to himself then shook his head, "No, if I was gonna try and break a gun like this, on something like that, I'd hit on an edge, flat like, this was something rounded, but uneven, the newest blocks from the quarries are smaller, and smoother cut, to save time on building and work once they are moved into place, since steam and electric power are all we really have other than Brahmins or backs to move 'em."

"Heh, that's right, a lot of the old pre-war blocks are still unmoved, and the new ones are a lot smaller because of that."

"Also look at the scratches on top of the frame, they go clear down from the bend to the rear sight, and I think I see a bit of blood there on the cylinder release," he pointed it out to Nick who made a low whistling sound that was odd, given that there was no air behind it, still the human detective went on explaining to his robotic partner; "I'd wager whoever did this was holding the gun in one hand, and hitting it with a rock in the other, a decent sized chunk of broken off granite heavy enough to do this, if the person was strong enough to hold 'em both and hit 'em like this."

"So then the question becomes," Valentine said as he stood upright and looked around the campsite once more; "Why wreck a gun ripe for salvage?"

"Because it was used recently before it was broke." Gambol said as he rubbed his fingers together then held them up for Nick to inspect; "Look, freshly burned powder residue, cheap shit too, the carbonization is bad, big crumbs of this are all over the inside of the barrel, which looks damn near stripped out."

Nick frowned; "That means either a forty-five or fifty caliber round was forced outta this thing. Not a good practice for anyone used to carrying a decent gun."

"Lack of powder on the outside means not much blow back or use, so a onetime thing maybe?" Gambol offered.

"Yeah, and if it was used on something, or someone, it likely wasn't up close either, of course, shooting like that it couldn't be too far away I'd guess, the ballistics would be off by a foot or more."

"So what now?"

Valentine stuffed his hands in his pockets, and looked towards the nearest intact structure, the museum of witchcraft and frowned more deeply.

"I'm not gonna like this am I?" Gambol groused as he stood up and followed Nick's gaze, then sighed; "The front door is wide open. When was the last time anyone reported that? It's been closed for years now."

"Decades more like." The Synthetic Detective amended before he started walking towards it.

"Nick… Nick! No one goes there, its bad luck to even think that!" Gambol objected as he swiped at his partners overcoat and missed; "Damnit all Nick, you know the legends, everyone who's ever poked around there ends up dead, either outside from some kinda' curse, or inside from whatever lives in there! Fuck, even the god damned Gunners and Raiders avoided that place!"

"Good thing I'm not superstitious then." Valentine replied as he drew out his SMG, tapped the mag to seat it, the flipped the dustcover open and fingered back the bolt inside, arming the small automatic bullet hose.

"Says the old prototype man of the future, as he readies his antique lead thrower while walking straight for a haunted hellhole in the middle of a post-apocalyptic suburb!" Gambol blurted out incredulously.

"Gambol, with prose like that, you should be on the radio, since police work doesn't seem to agree with you anymore." Nick said over his shoulder.

The sound of a shotgun being loaded and cocked, and a string of softly muttered epithets followed close behind him, before Gambol finally came astride of his partner and sighed deeply; "Mom always said I had a face for the radio, but a nose for finding radscorpion's."

"Well then between the two of us, our bad luck outta cancel one another out." Nick said with a devilish grin and wink as he paused at the open door.

"That sounds suspiciously like optimism boss."

"You take that back Gambol, or you'll owe me a carton of smokes when this is done."

* * *

_**A/N: Firstly, the most profuse and ernest apologies for this being some 20 days later than planned, once more my old laptop is showing it's age, and my writers block and muse are in stage 3 total warfare with one another, thanks to a bout of depression and dispondancy brought about by the death of my cat, the last living link to my "old life" aka my now failed marriage and floundering finances.**_

_**Next, yes, yes I know, I'm a rat bastard for having this oneshot go into THREE (3) parts, and part 2 is ending on such a subtle and erie **_**_cliffhanger!_**

**_Additionally, WOW! over 1700 views on this story, making it my most read fic by a WIDE effing margin! THANK YOU SO EVER VERY MUCH FOLKS!_**

_**Lastly, be ready for part 3 to take an ungodly amount of time as I am currently apartment hunting with 3 weeks left in my lease, and the fact that the paranoid Covid pandemic makes actually viewing or appraising potential places all but impossible, coupled with this being a renters market, and everyplace I have found to date has been snapped up from underneath me in rapid succession. I will be working on part 3 and chapter 6 of my RWBY crossover "RoG" but I will likely not finish either entry until the end of August if we're lucky.**_

_**In parting, as the maestro of film, Alfred Hitchcock once said; "Make the Audience suffer."**_


End file.
